y*  0tm 


WIV.  Of!  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  tOS  A1WEU58 


THE  WHITTIER  YEAR  BOOK 

PASSAGES  FROM  THE  VERSE  AND  PROSE 

OF  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

CHOSEN  FOR  THE  DAILY 

FOOD  OF  THE  LOVER 

OF  THOUGHT  AND 

BEAUTY 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

dfre  Rtoet^iDe  j&re0s, 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


J) 


">• S 


THE   PAGEANT 

A  SOUND  as  if  from  bells  of  silver, 
Or  elfin  cymbals  smitten  clear, 
Through  the  frost-pictured  panes  I  hear. 

A  brightness  which  outshines  the  morning, 
A  splendor  brooking  no  delay, 
Beckons  and  tempts  my  feet  away. 

I  leave  the  trodden  village  highway 

For  virgin  snow-paths  glimmering  through 
A  jewelled  elm-tree  avenue  ; 

I  tread  in  Orient  halls  enchanted, 

I  dream  the  Saga's  dream  of  caves 
Gem-lit  beneath  the  North  Sea  waves! 

I  walk  the  land  of  Eldorado, 

I  touch  its  mimic  garden  bowers, 

Its  silver  leaves  and  diamond  flowers  ! 

What  miracle  of  weird  transforming 
In  this  wild  work  of  frost  and  light, 
This  glimpse  of  glory  infinite  ! 

This  foregleam  of  the  Holy  City, 

Like  that  to  him  of  Patmos  given, 

The  white  bride  coming  down  from  heaven ! 


JANUARY 


Emancipation  proclamation,  1863;  Maria  Edgeworth,  1767; 
Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  1819. 

NOT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 
The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 
Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 
The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became, 
The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame ; 
For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondman's  cause  our  own. 
HYMN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  EMANCIPATION. 


James  Wolfe,  1726;  Justin  Winsor,  1831. 

DREARILY  blows  the  north-wind 

From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow  ; 
The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 

And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 
And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

THE  RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 
2 


JANUARY 
3 

Lucretia  Mott,  1793. 

ONLY  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame, 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  being's  end,  — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

To  • 


Jakob  Ludwig  Grimm,  1785. 

STILL  linger  in  our  noon  of  time 

And  on  our  Saxon  tongue 
The  echoes  of  the  home-born  hymns 

The  Aryan  mothers  sung. 

And  childhood  had  its  litanies 

In  every  age  and  clime  ; 
The  earliest  cradles  of  the  race 

Were  rocked  to  poet's  rhyme. 

CHILD-SONGS. 

3 


2133880 


JANUARY 


Stephen  Decatur,  1779. 

SHUT  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ? 
What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 

SNOW-BOUND. 


6 

Epiphany;  Charles  Sumner,  1811. 

YET,  weak  and  blinded  though  we  be, 
Thou  dost  our  service  own  ; 

We  bring  our  varying  gifts  to  Thee, 
And  Thou  rejectest  none. 

O  Love  !  O  Life  !     Our  faith  and  sight 
Thy  presence  maketh  one, 
4 


JANUARY 

As  through  transfigured  clouds  of  white 
We  trace  the  noon-day  sun. 

So,  to  our  mortal  eyes  subdued, 
Flesh-veiled,  but  not  concealed, 

We  know  in  Thee  the  fatherhood 
And  heart  of  God  revealed. 

OUR  MASTER. 

ONE  language  held  his  heart  and  lip, 
Straight  onward  to  his  goal  he  trod, 

And  proved  the  highest  statesmanship 
Obedience  to  the  voice  of  God. 

SUMNER. 


Israel  Putnam,  1718. 

AT  times  I  long  for  gentler  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 

That  saw  the  Cross  without  the  Bear. 
The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The  north-wind  break  the  tropic  calm; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the  Line, 
The  North's  keen  virtue   blend,  and  strength  to 
beauty  join. 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 

8 

Robert  Schumann,  1810;   L.  Alma  Tadema,  1836. 

LIKE  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 
Are  woven  fast, 
5 


JANUARY 

Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 
Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar ; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 

Through  all  will  run. 

'   My  SOUL  AND  I. 


John  K.  Paine,  1839. 

WE  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took   marvellous    shapes ;    strange    domes   and 

towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 
Or  garden  wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 
A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 
A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road  ; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 
With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 
The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof ; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

SNOW-BOUND. 

6 


JANUARY 
10 

Ethan  Allen,  1737  ;  Aubrey  de  Vere,  1814, 

THE  threads  our  hands  in  blindness  spin 
No  self-determined  plan  weaves  in ; 
The  shuttle  of  the  unseen  powers 
Works  out  a  pattern  not  as  ours. 

Ah  !  small  the  choice  of  him  who  sings 
What  sound  shall  leave  the  smitten  strings ; 
Fate  holds  and  guides  the  hand  of  art ; 
The  singer's  is  the  servant's  part. 

OVERRULED. 

II 

Alexander  Hamilton,  1757;  Bayard  Taylor,  1825. 

HE  brought  us  wonders  of  the  new  and  old  ; 

We  shared  all  climes  with  him.     The  Arab's  tent 

To  him  its  story-telling  secret  lent. 
And,  pleased,  we  listened  to  the  tales  he  told. 
His  task,  beguiled  with  songs  that  shall  endure, 

In  manly,  honest  thoroughness  he  wrought; 

From  humble  home-lays  to  the  heights  of  thought 
Slowly  he  climbed,  but  every  step  was  sure. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


12 

John  Winthrop,  1588;  John  Hancock,  1737. 

STERNLY  faithful  to  duty,  in  peril,  and  suffering, 
and  self-denial,  they  wrought  out  the   noblest  of 
7 


JANUARY 

historical  epics  on  the  rough  soil  of  New  England. 
They  lived  a  truer  poetry  than  Homer  or  Virgil 
wrote. 

PAWTUCKET  FALLS. 


13 

S.  P.  Chase,  1808. 

THE  joy  that  comes  in  sorrow's  guise, 
The  sweet  pains  of  self-sacrifice, 
I  would  not  have  them  otherwise. 

I  suffer  with  no  vain  pretence 
Of  triumph  over  flesh  and  sense, 
Yet  trust  the  grievous  providence, 

How  dark  soe'er  it  seems,  may  tend, 
By  ways  I  cannot  comprehend, 
To  some  unguessed  benignant  end ; 

That  every  loss  and  lapse  may  gain 
The  clear-aired  heights  by  steps  of  pain, 
And  never  cross  is  borne  in  vain. 

MY  TRUST. 


14 

WHAT  matter  though  we  seek  with  pain 
The  garden  of  the  gods  in  vain, 
If  lured  thereby  we  climb  to  greet 
Some  wayside  blossom  Eden-sweet  ? 
8 


JANUARY 

To  seek  is  better  than  to  gain, 
The  fond  hope  dies  as  we  attain ; 
Life's  fairest  things  are  those  which  seem, 
The  best  is  that  of  which  we  dream. 

SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 


15 

Moliere,  1622;  Marjorie  Fleming,  1803. 

NOR  sky,  nor  wave,  nor  tree,  nor  flower, 

Nor  green  earth's  virgin  sod, 
So  moved  the  singer's  heart  of  old 

As  these  small  ones  of  God. 

The  mystery  of  unfolding  life 

Was  more  than  dawning  morn, 
Than  opening  flower  or  crescent  moon 

The  human  soul  new-born ! 

And  still  to  childhood's  sweet  appeal 

The  heart  of  genius  turns, 
And  more  than  all  the  sages  teach 

From  lisping  voices  learns, 

CHILD-SONGS. 


16 

Edmund  Spenser,  died  1599. 

I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 
9 


JANUARY 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning 
dew. 

Yet  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try ; 
I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 
In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad,  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the 

sky. 

PROEM. 

17 

Benjamin  Franklin,  1706;  George  Fuller,  1822. 

THE  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 

Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health  ; 

And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 

The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

OUR  STATE. 

HAUNTED  of  Beauty,  like  the  marvellous  youth 
Who  sang  Saint  Agnes'  Eve  !     How  passing  fair 
Her  shapes  took  color  in  thy  homestead  air  ! 
How  on  thy  canvas  even  her  dreams  were  truth  ! 
Magician !  who  from  commonest  elements 
Called  up  divine  ideals,  clothed  upon 
By  mystic  lights  soft  blending  into  one 
Womanly  grace  and  child-like  innocence. 
Teacher  !  thy  lesson  was  not  given  in  vain. 
Beauty  is  goodness  ;  ugliness  is  sin  : 
Art's  place  is  sacred  :  nothing  foul  therein 
May  crawl  or  tread  with  bestial  feet  profane. 

10 


JANUARY 

If  rightly  choosing  is  the  painter's  test, 
Thy  choice,  O  master,  ever  was  the  best. 

AN  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

18 

Montesquieu,  1689;  Daniel  Webster,  1782. 

THOU, 

Whom  the  rich  heavens  did  so  endow 
With  eyes  of  power  and  Jove's  own  brow, 
With  all  the  massive  strength  that  fills 
Thy  home-horizon's  granite  hills, 
New  England's  stateliest  type  of  man, 
In  port  and  speech  Olympian  ; 
Whom  no  one  met,  at  first,  but  took 
A  second  awed  and  wondering  look. 
Whose  words  in  simplest  homespun  clad, 
The  Saxon  strength  of  Caedmon's  had, 
With  power  reserved  at  need  to  reach 
The  Roman  forum's  loftiest  speech. 
Sweet  with  persuasion,  eloquent 
In  passion,  cool  in  argument, 
Or,  ponderous,  falling  on  thy  foes 
As  fell  the  Norse  god's  hammer  blows, 
And  failing  only  when  they  tried 
The  adamant  of  the  righteous  side. 

THE  LOST  OCCASION. 

19 

James  Watt,  1736;  Bernardin  St.  Pierre,  1737. 

ALL  who,  by  skill  and  patience,  anyhow 
Make  service  noble,  and  the  earth  redeem 
li 


JANUARY 

From  savageness.     By  kingly  accolade 

Than  theirs  was  never  worthier  knighthood  made. 

THE  PROBLEM. 


His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 
All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low ;  — 
A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress, 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


20 
N  P.  Willis,  1807. 

HE  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes! 
—  from  the  frozen  Labrador,  — 

From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which 
the  white  bear  wanders  o'er,  — 

Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and  the 
luckless  forms  below 

In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  mar- 
ble statues  grow ! 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes  ! 

and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 
The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring  to 

the  skater's  heel ; 
And  the   streams    which   danced    on   the   broken 

rocks,  or  sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 
Shall   bow   again   to   their   winter   chain,    and   in 

mournful  silence  pass. 

THE  FROST  SPIRIT. 
12 


JANUARY 
21 

Oscar  II.  of  Sweden,  1829. 

THE  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 

Of  mystery  is  this; 
Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 

Makes  dumb  its  witnesses. 
What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 

That  reach  up  stair  on  stair? 
What  eyes  look  through,  what  white  wings  fan 

These  purple  veils  of  air  ? 
What  Presence  from  the  heavenly  heights 

To  those  of  earth  stoops  down  ? 
Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 

On  Ida's  snowy  crown ! 

SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP. 


22 

Bacon,  1561;  Lessing,  1729;  Byron,  1788. 

WHAT  lack  of  goodly  company, 

When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 
Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 

Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and  fire ! 
I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 
I  read  the  world  with  Pascal's  eyes ; 
And  priest  and  sage,  with  solemn  brows  austere, 
And  poets,  garland-bound,  the  Lords  of  Thought, 
draw  near. 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 
13 


JANUARY 
23 

William  Page,  1811. 

WISELY  and  well  said  the  Eastern  bard : 
Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard ; 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's  rage, 
And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrimage ; 
But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

THE  PREACHER. 


24 

Frederick  the  Great,  1712  ;  Charles  James  Fox,  1749. 

Is  there,  then,  no  death  for  a  word  once  spoken  ? 
Was  never  a  deed  but  left  its  token 
Written  on  tables  never  broken  ? 

Do  the  elements  subtle  reflections  give  ? 
Do  pictures  of  all  the  ages  live 
On  Nature's  infinite  negative  ? 

THE  PALATINE. 


25 

Robert  Burns,  1759. 

I  MATCHED  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 
The  sweetbrier  and  the  clover ; 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills, 
Their  wood  hymns  chanting  over. 


JANUARY 

O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising ; 
No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing ! 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly ; 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

BURNS. 

26 

B.  R.  Haydon,  1786;  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd,  1795. 

YET  do  thy  work  ;  it  shall  succeed 

In  thine  or  in  another's  day; 
And,  if  denied  the  victor's  meed, 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  toiler's  pay. 

Faith  shares  the  future's  promise  ;  Love's 

Self-offering  is  a  triumph  won ; 
And  each  good  thought  or  action  moves 

The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 

THE  VOICES. 


27 

Mozart,  1756;  Emperor  William  II.,  1859. 

FOLLY  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain  : 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 
IS 


JANUARY 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  controls 

Whate'er  thou  fearest ; 
Round  Him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  hearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  Him  is  day, 

And  the  end  He  knoweth, 
And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 

The  spirit  goeth. 

MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


28 

Charles  George  Gordon,  1833. 

O  HEART  of  mine,  keep  patience  !  —  Looking  forth, 
As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  behold, 

Pure,    just,    and   free,   the    Church   of    Christ   on 

earth,  — 
The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age  foretold  ! 

And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Grail  I  see, 

Brimmed  with  His  blessing,  pass  from  lip  to  lip 
In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellowship  ; 
And  over  all  the  songs  of  angels  hear, — 
Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear,  — 
Songs  of  the  Gospel  of  Humanity  ! 

ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK. 

29 

Emanuel  Swedenborg,  1688. 

A  MAN  remarkable  for  his  practical  activities,  an 
ardent  scholar  of  the  exact  sciences,  versed  in  all 
16 


JANUARY 

the  arcana  of  physics,  a  skilful  and  inventive 
mechanician,  he  has  evolved  from  the  hard  and 
gross  materialism  of  his  studies  a  system  of  tran- 
scendent spiritualism.  From  his  aggregation  of 
cold  and  apparently  lifeless  practical  facts  beauti- 
ful and  wonderful  abstractions  start  forth  like  blos- 
soms on  the  rod  of  the  Levite. 

SWEDEN  BORG. 


30 

Walter  Savage  Landor,  1775. 

To  be  saved  is  only  this,  — 
Salvation  from  our  selfishness; 
From  more  than  elemental  fire,  — 
The  soul's  unsanctified  desire ;  — 
From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 
That  warns  us  of  its  chafing  chain. 

THE  MEETING. 


31 

Franz  Schubert,  1797. 

BETTER  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 

The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by ! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim  to  know. 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 
17 


THE   CLEAR  VISION. 

I  DID  but  dream.     I  never  knew 

What  charms  our  sternest  season  wore. 
Was  never  yet  the  sky  so  blue, 

Was  never  earth  so  white  before. 
Till  now  I  never  saw  the  glow 
Of  sunset  on  yon  hills  of  snow, 
And  never  learned  the  bough's  designs 
Of  beauty  in  its  leafless  lines. 

Did  ever  such  a  morning  break 

As  that  my  eastern  windows  see  ? 
Did  ever  such  a  moonlight  take 

Weird  photographs  of  shrub  and  tree  ? 
Rang  ever  bells  so  wild  and  fleet 
The  music  of  the  winter  street  ? 
Was  ever  yet  a  sound  by  half 
So  merry  as  yon  school-boy's  laugh  ? 

O  Earth  !  with  gladness  overfraught, 

No  added  charm  thy  face  hath  found ; 
Within  my  heart  the  change  is  wrought, 
My  footsteps  make  enchanted  ground. 
From  couch  of  pain  and  curtained  room 
Forth  to  thy  light  and  air  I  come, 
To  find  in  all  that  meets  my  eyes 
The  freshness  of  a  glad  surprise. 
18 


FEBRUARY 

Break  forth,  my  lips,  in  praise,  and  own 

The  wiser  love  severely  kind ; 
Since,  richer  for  its  chastening  grown, 

I  see,  whereas  I  once  was  blind. 
The  world,  O  Father  !  hath  not  wronged 
With  loss  the  life  by  Thee  prolonged  ; 
But  still,  with  every  added  year, 
More  beautiful  Thy  works  appear ! 

As  Thou  hast  made  thy  world  without, 
Make  Thou  more  fair  my  world  within; 

Shine  through  its  lingering  clouds  of  doubt ; 
Rebuke  its  haunting  shapes  of  sin; 

Fill,  brief  or  long,  my  granted  span 

Of  life  with  love  to  thee  and  man ; 

Strike  when  thou  wilt  the  hour  of  rest, 

But  let  my  last  days  be  my  best ! 
19 


FEBRUARY 

i 

Edmund  Qoincy,  1808. 

BETTER  than  self-indulgent  years 

The  outflung  heart  of  youth, 
Than  pleasant  songs  in  idle  years 

The  tumult  of  the  truth. 

Rest  for  the  weary  hands  is  good, 

And  love  for  hearts  that  pine, 
But  let  the  manly  habitude 

Of  upright  souls  be  mine. 

MY  BIRTHDAY. 


Candlemas ;  Hannah  More    1745. 

WHATEVER  in  love's  name  is  truly  done 
To  free  the  bound  and  lift  the  fallen  one 
Is  done  to  Christ.     Whoso  in  deed  and  word 
Is  not  against  Him  labors  for  our  Lord. 
When  He,  who,  sad  and  weary,  longing  sore 
For  love's  sweet  service,  sought  the  sisters'  door, 
One  saw  the  heavenly,  one  the  human  guest, 
But  who  shall  say  which  loved  the  Master  best  ? 

BY  THEIR  WORKS. 


3 

Mendelssohn,  1809;  F.  W.  Robertson,   1816;  Sidney  Lanier,  1842. 

A  LIFE  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 
The  beauty  of  its  thought ; 
20 


FEBRUARY 

And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmonies 
Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 

Sure  stands  the  promise,  —  ever  to  the  meek 

A  heritage  is  given ; 
Nor  lose  they  Earth  who,  single-hearted,  seek 

The  righteousness  of  Heaven  ! 

THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS. 


4 

Josiah  Quincy,  1772. 

THE  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

SNOW-BOUND. 

5 

James  Otis,  1725  ;  Sir  Robert  Peel,  1788. 

OUR  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone ; 
Their  strife  is  past,  —  their  triumph  won ; 
21 


FEBRUARY 

But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place,  — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

THE  MORAL  WARFARE. 

6 

Madame  de  Sevigne',  1626;  Queen  Anne,  1665. 

WE  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 
We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 

The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 

And,  painted  on  the  eternal  wall, 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 

RAPHAEL. 

7 

Charles  Dickens,  1812. 

SOMETIMES  glimpses  on  my  sight, 
Through  present  wrong,  the  eternal  right ; 
And,  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 
I  see  the  steady  gain  of  man ; 

22 


\ 
FEBRUARY 

That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time  glad, 
Our  common  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


Robert  Burton,  1577 ;  John  Ruskin,  1819. 

THE  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me ; 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
Of  what  mankind  shall  be,  — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 

A  dream  of  man  and  woman 
Diviner  but  still  human, 
Solving  the  riddle  old, 
Shaping  the  Age  of  Gold  ! 

The  love  of  God  and  neighbor ; 
An  equal-handed  labor ; 
The  richer  life,  where  beauty 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  duty. 

MY  TRIUMPH. 


9 

James  Parton,  1822. 

WE  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 
Within  a  daily  strife, 
23 


FEBRUARY 

And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 
Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 

The  truths  we  know,  are  one ; 
The  known  and  nameless  stars  revolve 

Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 


10 

Charles  Lamb,  1775  ;  Ary  Scheffer,  1795. 

Lo !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look  he  wore, 
Healing  and  blessing  on  Gennesaret's  shore, 
Folding  together,  with  the  all-tender  might 

Of  his  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and  the  white, 
Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every  pain, 

Making  all  burdens  light,  and  breaking  every  chain. 

ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK. 

II 

Lydia  Maria  Child,  1802  ;  T.  A.  Edison,  1847. 

AND,  hushed  to  silence  by  a  reverent  awe, 

Methought,  O  friend,  I  saw 
In  thy  true  life  of  word  and  work  and  thought 

The  proof  of  all  we  sought. 
24 


FEBRUARY 

Did  we  not  witness  in  the  life  of  thee 

Immortal  prophecy  ? 
And  feel,  when  with  thee,  that  thy  footsteps  trod 

An  everlasting  road  ? 

Not  for  brief  days  thy  generous  sympathies, 

Thy  scorn  of  selfish  ease  ; 
Not  for  the  poor  prize  of  an  earthly  goal 

Thy  strong  uplift  of  soul. 

WITHIN  THE  GATE. 


12 


Cotton  Mather,    1663;   Abraham   Lincoln,   1809;    Charles   Robert 
Darwin,  1809 ;  W.  W.  Story,  1819 ;  George  Meredith,  1828. 

THAT  quaint  Magnalia  Christi,  with   all  strange 

and  marvellous  things, 
Heaped  up   huge  and  undigested,  like  the  chaos 

Ovid  sings. 

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 


THE  cloudy  sign,  the  fiery  guide, 

Along  his  pathway  ran, 
And  Nature,  through  his  voice,  denied 

The  ownership  of  man. 

We  rest  in  peace  where  these  sad  eyes 

Saw  peril,  strife,  and  pain ; 
His  was  the  nation's  sacrifice, 

And  ours  the  priceless  gain. 

THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP. 
25 


FEBRUARY 
13 

John  Hunter,  1728. 

DOUBTS  to  the  world's  child-heart  unknown 
Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone  ; 
Too  little  or  too  much  we  know, 
And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow  ; 
The  power  is  lost  to  self-deceive 
With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 
We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 
Call  to  a  thousand  oracles. 

THE  MEETING. 


Edmond  About,  1828. 

WE  share  our  primal  parents'  fate, 

And,  in  our  turn  and  day, 
Look  back  on  Eden's  sworded  gate 

As  sad  and  lost  as  they. 

But  still  for  us  his  native  skies 

The  pitying  Angel  leaves, 
And  leads  through  Toil  to  Paradise 

New  Adams  and  new  Eves  ! 

A  LAY  OF  OLD  TIME. 


15 

S.  Weir  Mitchell,  1829. 

NOT  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 
And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
26 


FEBRUARY 

But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 
Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above, 
I  know  not  of  His  hate,  —  I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 

THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS. 


16 

Philip  Melanchthon,  1497;  Gaspard  de  Coligni,  1517. 

IMMORTAL  Love,  forever  full, 

Forever  flowing  free, 
Forever  shared,  forever  whole, 

A  never-ebbing  sea ! 

Our  outward  lips  confess  the  name 

All  other  names  above ; 
Love  only  knoweth  whence  it  came 

And  comprehendeth  love. 

Blow,  winds  of  God,  awake  and  blow 

The  mists  of  earth  away ! 
Shine  out,  O  Light  Divine,  and  show 

How  wide  and  far  we  stray ! 

OUR  MASTER. 


17 

A  MIND  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted  through  its  graceful  bower, 
27 


FEBRUARY 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower : 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

MEMORIES. 


18 

Galileo,  1564;  George  Peabody,  1795. 

No  gain  is  lost ;  the  clear-eyed  saints  look  down 

Untroubled  on  the  wreck  of  schemes  and  creeds ; 

Love  yet  remains,  its  rosary  of  good  deeds 
Counting  in  task-field  and  o'erpeopled  town. 
Truth  has  charmed  life  ;  the  Inward  Word  survives, 

And,  day  by  day,  its  revelation  brings  ; 

Faith,  hope,  and  charity,  whatsoever  things 
Which  cannot  be  shaken,  stand.     Still  holy  lives 

Reveal  the  Christ  of  whom  the  letter  told, 

And  the  new  gospel  verifies  the  old. 

ADJUSTMENT. 


19 

Copernicus,  1473. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
28 


FEBRUARY 

We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick  ; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom. 

SNOW-BOUND. 


2O 

David  Garrick,  1716;  Joseph  Jefferson,  1829. 

WHEN  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting, 
When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting ; 
While  in  the  firelight  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

THE  DROVERS. 

21 

John  Henry  Newman,  1801. 

BY  inward  sense,  by  outward  signs, 
God's  presence  still  the  heart  divines ; 
29 


FEBRUARY 

Through  deepest  joy  of  Him  we  learn, 
In  sorest  grief  to  Him  we  turn, 
And  reason  stoops  its  pride  to  share 
The  child-like  instinct  of  a  prayer. 

MIRIAM. 

22 

Washington,  1732;  James  Russell  Lowell,  1819. 

THANK  God !  the  people's  choice  was  just, 

The  one  man  equal  to  his  trust, 
Wise  beyond  lore,  and  without  weakness  good, 
Calm  in  the  strength  of  flawless  rectitude  ! 

THE  Vow  OF  WASHINGTON. 

FROM  purest  wells  of  English  undefined 
None  deeper  drank  than  he,  the  New  World's  child, 
Who  in  the  language  of  their  farm-fields  spoke 
The  wit  and  wisdom  of  New  England  folk, 
Shaming    a    monstrous   wrong.      The    world-wide 

laugh 

Provoked  thereby  might  well  have  shaken  half 
The  walls  of  Slavery  down,  ere  yet  the  ball 
And  mine  of  battle  overthrew  them  all. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

23 
G.  F.  Handel,  1685  ;  Josiah  Quincy,  Jr.,  1744. 

HAST  thou  not,  on  some  week  of  storm, 
Seen  the  sweet  Sabbath  breaking  fair, 

And  cloud  and  shadow,  sunlit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer  ? 
30 


FEBRUARY 

So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 
The  wrong  shall  lose  itself  in  right, 

And  all  thy  week-day  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the  light ! 

THB  VOICES. 


24 
George  William  Curtis,  1824. 

THE  jewels  loosen  on  the  branches, 
And  lightly,  as  the  soft  winds  blow, 
Fall,  tinkling,  on  the  ice  below. 

And  through  the  clashing  of  their  cymbals 
I  hear  the  old  familiar  fall 
Of  water  down  the  rocky  wall, 

Where,  from  its  wintry  prison  breaking, 
In  dark  and  silence  hidden  long, 
The  brook  repeats  its  summer  song ; 

One  instant  flashing  in  the  sunshine, 
Keen  as  a  sabre  from  its  sheath, 
Then  lost  again  the  ice  beneath. 

THE  PAGEANT. 


25 

AND  if  her  life  small  leisure  found 
For  feasting  ear  and  eye, 

And  Pleasure,  on  her  daily  round, 
She  passed  unpausing  by, 


FEBRUARY 

Yet  with  her  went  a  secret  sense 

Of  all  things  sweet  and  fair, 
And  Beauty's  gracious  providence 

Refreshed  her  unaware. 

An  inborn  charm  of  graciousness 
Made  sweet  her  smile  and  tone, 

And  glorified  her  farm-wife  dress 
With  beauty  not  its  own. 

THE  FRIEND'S  BURIAL. 


26 

Arago,  1786  ;  Victor  Hugo,  1802. 

THE  mystery  dimly  understood, 

That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good, 

That  Book  and  Church  and  Day  are  given 

For  man,  not  God,  —  for  earth,  not  heaven, — 

The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends, 

Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends. 

THE  MEETING. 


27 
H.  W.  Longfellow,  1807;  J.  E.  Renan,  1823. 

THY  greeting  smile  was  pledge  and  prelude 
Of  generous  deeds  and  kindly  words  ; 

In  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest-chambers, 
Open  to  sunrise  and  the  birds ! 

A  MEMORIAL. 
32 


FEBRUARY 
28 

Montaigne,  1533. 

SLOW  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 
But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

RAPHAEL. 


29 

Rossini,  1792. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

33 


THE   WIND    OF    MARCH. 

UP  from  the  sea  the  wild  north  wind  is  blowing 

Under  the  sky's  gray  arch ; 
Smiling,  I  watch  the  shaken  elm-boughs,  knowing 

It  is  the  wind  of  March. 

Between  the  passing  and  the  coming  season, 

This  stormy  interlude 
Gives  to  our  winter-wearied  hearts  a  reason 

For  trustful  gratitude. 

Welcome  to  waiting  ears  its  harsh  forewarning 

Of  light  and  warmth  to  come, 
The  longed-for  joy  of  Nature's  Easter  morning, 

The  earth  arisen  in  bloom  ! 

In  the  loud  tumult  winter's  strength  is  breaking; 

I  listen  to  the  sound, 
As  to  a  voice  of  resurrection,  waking 

To  life  the  dead,  cold  ground. 

Between  these  gusts,  to  the  soft  lapse  I  hearken 

Of  rivulets  on  their  way  ; 
I  see  these  tossed  and  naked  treetops  darken. 

With  the  fresh  leaves  of  May. 
34 


MARCH 

This  roar  of  storm,  this  sky  so  gray  and  lowering, 

Invite  the  airs  of  Spring, 
A  warmer  sunshine  over  fields  of  flowering, 

The  bluebird's  song  and  wing. 

Closely  behind,  the  Gulf's  warm  breezes  follow 

This  northern  hurricane, 
And,  borne  thereon,  the  bobolink  and  swallow 

Shall  visit  us  again. 

And,  in  green  wood-paths,  in  the  kine-fed  pasture, 

And  by  the  whispering  rills, 
Shall  flowers  repeat  the  lesson  of  the  Master 

Taught  on  his  Syrian  hills. 

Blow,   then,    wild  wind !   thy  roar    shall    end    in 

singing, 

Thy  chill  in  blossoming ; 

Come,  like  Bethesda's  troubling  angel,  bringing 
The  healing  of  the  Spring. 
35 


MARCH 


Frederic  Chopin,  1809;  W.  D.  Howells,  1837. 

THE  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  His  works, 

Has  left  His  hope  with  all ! 

A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 


2 

Sir  Thomas  Bodley,  1544. 

NEVER  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
But  grates  and  grinds  with  friction  hard 
On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals. 

THE  PREACHER. 


3 

Edmund  Waller,  1606 ;  William  Godwin,  1756. 

HE  prayeth  best  who  leaves  unguessed 
The  mystery  of  another's  breast. 
36 


MARCH 

Why  cheeks  grow  pale,  why  eyes  o'erflow, 
Or  heads  are  white,  thou  need'st  not  know. 
Enough  to  note  by  many  a  sign 
That  every  heart  hath  needs  like  thine. 
Pray  for  us  ! 

THE  PRAYER-SEEKER. 


T.  S.  King,  died  1864. 

THE  great  work  laid  upon  his  twoscore  years 
Is  done,  and  well  done.     If  we  drop  our  tears, 
Who  loved  him  as  few  men  were  ever  loved, 
We  mourn  no  blighted  hope  nor  broken  plan 
With  him  whose  life  stands  rounded  and  approved 
In  the  full  growth  and  stature  of  a  man. 
Mingle,  O  bells,  along  the  Western  slope, 
With  your  deep  toll  a  sound  of  faith  and  hope! 
Wave  cheerily  still,  O  banner  half-way  down, 
From  thousand-masted  bay  and  steepled  town  ! 
Let  the  strong  organ  with  its  loftiest  swell 
Lift  the  proud  sorrow  of  the  land,  and  tell 
That  the  brave  sower  saw  his  ripened  grain. 
O  East  and  West !     O  morn  and  sunset  twain 
No  more  forever !  —  has  he  lived  in  vain 
Who,  priest  of  Freedom,  made  ye  one,  and  told 
Your  bridal  service  from  his  lips  of  gold  ? 

THOMAS  STARR  KING. 

37 


MARCH 

5 

James  Madison,  1751. 

WITH  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steeds  of 

fire  and  steam, 
Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind  him 

like  a  dream. 
Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  backward 

far  and  fast 
The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of  the 

past. 

MARY  GARVIN. 


Michelangelo,  1475 ;  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  1806 ;  George  du 
Maurier,  1834. 

I  KNOW  not  how,  in  other  lands, 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go ; 
What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 

What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates ; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  traveller's  tale. 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


7 

Sir  John  Herschel,  1792 ;  Sir  Edwin  Landseer,  1802. 

ENOUGH  for  me  to  feel  and  know 
That  He  in  whom  the  cause  and  end, 
38 


MARCH 

The  past  and  future,  meet  and  blend, — 
Who,  girt  with  his  Immensities, 
Our  vast  and  star-hung  system  sees, 
Small  as  the  clustered  Pleiades, — 
Moves  not  alone  the  heavenly  quires, 
But  waves  the  spring-time's  grassy  spires, 
Guards  not  archangel  feet  alone, 
But  deigns  to  guide  and  keep  my  own ; 
Speaks  not  alone  the  words  of  fate 
Which  worlds  destroy  and  worlds  create, 
But  whispers  in  my  spirit's  ear, 
In  tones  of  love,  or  warning  fear, 
A  language  none  beside  may  hear. 

QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 

8 

Sir  William  Hamilton,  1788. 

So  welcome  I  from  every  source 
The  tokens  of  that  primal  Force, 
Older  than  heaven  itself,  yet  new 
As  the  young  heart  it  reaches  to, 
Beneath  whose  steady  impulse  rolls 
The  tidal  wave  of  human  souls ; 
Guide,  comforter,  and  inward  word, 

The  eternal  spirit  of  the  Lord ! 

MIRIAM. 

9 

Mirabeau,  1749 ;  William  Cobbett,  1762. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and  long 
The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 
39 


MARCH 

Making  each  vale  a  watercourse,  —  each  hill 
Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new-made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by  the  rain, 
Heaved  underneath  by  the  swollen  current's  strain, 
The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merrimack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its  track. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


10 

F.  von  Schlegel,  1772  ;  William  Etty,  1787. 

FALSEHOODS  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 

CALEF  IN  BOSTON. 

II 

'   Charles  Sumner,  died  1874. 

THE  old  traditions  of  his  State, 

The  memories  of  her  great  and  good, 

Took  from  his  life  a  fresher  date, 
And  in  himself  embodied  stood. 

Safely  his  dearest  friends  may  own 
The  slight  defects  he  never  hid, 

The  surface-blemish  in  the  stone 
Of  the  tall,  stately  pyramid. 
40 


MARCH 

Suffice  it  that  he  never  brought 
His  conscience  to  the  public  mart; 

But  lived  himself  the  truth  he  taught, 
White-souled,  clean-handed,  pure  of  heart. 

SUMNER. 


12 

Richard  Steele,  1672;  Bishop  Berkeley,  1684;  Mary  Howitt,  1799. 

THREE  shades  at  this  moment  seem  walking  her 

strand, 
Each  with  head  halo-crowned,  and  with  palms  in 

his  hand,  — 
Wise     Berkeley,    grave     Hopkins,    and,     smiling 

serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is  seen. 

One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer  they  need 
Credentials  of  party,  and  passwords  of  creed : 
The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  threefold  accord, 
And  they  own   one  baptism,  one  faith,  and  one 
Lord! 

THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 

13 

Joseph  Priestley,  1733. 

THE  wind-harp  chooses  not  the  tone 
That  through  its  trembling  threads  is  blown  ; 
The  patient  organ  cannot  guess 
What  hand  its  passive  keys  shall  press. 
41 


MARCH 

Through  wish,  resolve,  and  act,  our  will 
Is  moved  by  undreamed  forces  still; 
And  no  man  measures  in  advance 
His  strength  with  untried  circumstance. 

OVERRULED. 

14 

Victor  Emanuel,  1820 ;  Humbert,  1844. 

As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the  earth 
The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 
When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its  top, 
So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's  life 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  providence, 
By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast  thereon ; 
And  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in  Heaven. 

TAULER. 

15 

John  Endicott,  died  1665  ;  Andrew  JackSon,  1767. 

A  GRAVE,  strong  man,  who  knew  no  peer 
In  the  pilgrim  land,  where  he  ruled  in  fear 
Of  God,  not  man,  and  for  good  or  ill 
Held  his  trust  with  an  iron  will. 

THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. 

16 

Caroline  Herschel,  1730. 

FOR  ages  on  our  river  borders, 

These  tassels  in  their  tawny  bloom, 
42 


MARCH 

And  willowy  studs  of  downy  silver, 
Have  prophesied  of  Spring  to  come. 

For  ages  have  the  unbound  waters 
Smiled  on  them  from  their  pebbly  hem, 

And  the  clear  carol  of  the  robin 

And  song  of  bluebird  welcomed  them. 

THE  FIRST  FLOWERS. 


17 

Madame  Roland,  1754. 

I  AM  :  how  little  more  I  know ! 
Whence  came  I  ?    Whither  do  I  go  ? 
A  centred  self,  which  feels  and  is ; 
A  cry  between  the  silences ; 
A  shadow-birth  of  clouds  at  strife 
With  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  life ; 
A  shaft  from  Nature's  quiver  cast 
Into  the  Future  from  the  Past; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  shroud, 
A  meteor's  flight  from  cloud  to  cloud. 

QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 


18 


Francis  Lieber,  1800. 

HEED  how  thou  livest.     Do  no  act  by  day 
Which  from  the  night  shall  drive  thy  peace  away. 
In  months  of  sun  so  live  that  months  of  rain 
Shall  still  be  happy.    Evermore  restrain 
43 


MARCH 

Evil  and  cherish  good,  so  shall  there  be 
Another  and  a  happier  life  for  thee. 

CONDUCT. 


19 

A.  P.  Peabody,  1811  ;  David  Livingstone,  1813. 

No  fable  old,  nor  mythic  lore, 
Nor  dream  of  bards  and  seers, 

No  dead  fact  stranded  on  the  shore 
Of  the  oblivious  years ;  — 

But  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  He  ; 
And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet, 

And  love  is  Galilee. 

OUR  MASTER. 


20 

Henrik  Ibsen,  1828;  Charles  William  Eliot,  1834. 

FRESH  and  green  from  the  rotting  roots 
Of  primal  forests  the  young  growth  shoots ;  .  . 
On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upward  leads, 
The  step  of  progress  are  human  needs. 
For  his  judgments  still  are  a  mighty  deep, 
And  the  eyes  of  his  providence  never  sleep. 

THE  PREACHER. 

44 


MARCH 
21 

J.  S.  Bach,  1685;  Jean  Paul  Richter,  1763. 

THE  sweet  persuasion  of  His  voice 

Respects  thy  sanctity  of  will. 
He  giveth  day :  thou  hast  thy  choice 

To  walk  in  darkness  still ; 

As  one  who,  turning  from  the  light, 
Watches  his  own  gray  shadow  fall, 

Doubting,  upon  his  path  of  night, 
If  there  be  day  at  all ! 

No  word  of  doom  may  shut  thee  out, 
No  wind  of  wrath  may  downward  whirl, 

No  swords  of  fire  keep  watch  about 
The  open  gates  of  pearl. 

THE  ANSWER. 

22 
Van  Dyck,  1599;  Rosa  Bonheur,  1822;  Randolph  Caldecott,  1846. 

THE  Traveller  said :    "  If  songs  have  creeds, 

Their  choice  of  them  let  singers  make ; 
But  Art  no  other  sanction  needs 

Than  beauty  for  its  own  fair  sake. 
It  grinds  not  in  the  mill  of  use, 
Nor  asks  for  leave,  nor  begs  excuse; 
It  makes  the  flexile  laws  it  deigns  to  own, 
And  gives  its  atmosphere  its  color  and  its  tone." 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 
45 


MARCH 
23 

P.  L.  de  Laplace,  1749. 

ABOVE,  below,  in  sky  and  sod, 
In  leaf  and  spar,  in  star  and  man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian  scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 
The  measured  order  of  His  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright 
Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all, — 
One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall 

In  soul  and  form,  in  sound  and  sight, — 
Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 

THE  OVER-HEART. 


24 
Joel  Barlow,  1755  ;  William  Morris,  1834. 

STILL,  in  perpetual  judgment, 

I  hold  assize  within, 
With  sure  reward  of  holiness, 

And  dread  rebuke  of  sin. 

A  light,  a  guide,  a  warning, 

A  presence  ever  near, 
Through  the  deep  silence  of  the  flesh 

I  reach  the  inward  ear. 

My  Gerizhn  and  Ebal 
Are  in  each  human  soul, 
46 


MARCH 

The  still,  small  voice  of  blessing, 
And  Sinai's  thunder-roll. 

THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD. 

25 
Antonio  Rosraini,  1797. 

IT  is  not  ours  to  separate 

The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate, 

To  show  what  metes  and  bounds  should  stand 

Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 

And  between  choice  and  Providence 

Divide  the  circle  of  events ; 

But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just, 
Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 

That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust ! 

SNOW-BOUND. 

26 

Count  Rumford,  1753  ;  Nathaniel  Bowditch,  1773. 

NOR  fear  I  aught  that  science  brings 
From  searching  through  material  things ; 
Content  to  let  its  glasses  prove, 
Not  by  the  letter's  oldness  move, 
The  myriad  worlds  on  worlds  that  course 
The  spaces  of  the  universe ; 
Since  everywhere  the  Spirit  walks 
The  garden  of  the  heart,  and  talks 
With  man,  as  under  Eden's  trees, 
In  all  his  varied  languages. 

MIRIAM. 

47 


MARCH 

27 

AH,  well !  —  The  world  is  discreet ; 

There  are  plenty  to  pause  and  wait ; 
But  here  was  a  man  who  set  his  feet 

Sometimes  in  advance  of  fate,  — 

Plucked  off  the  old  bark  when  the  inner 

Was  slow  to  renew  it, 
And  put  to  the  Lord's  work  the  sinner 

When  saints  failed  to  do  it. 

To  G.  L.  S. 


28 

Samuel  Sewall,  1652  ;  Thomas  Clarkson,  1760. 

STATELY  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 
His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 
Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 
His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 
He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought, 
Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes  not ; 
Yet  touched  and  softened,  nevertheless, 
With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness,  . 
True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 
That  man  might  honor  and  woman  trust. 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
48 


MARCH 

Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 

Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side 

By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er  it  glide ! 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEW  ALL. 


29 

OVER  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 

Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years ; 

On  man  and  his  works  has  passed  the  change 

Which  needs  must  be  in  a  century's  range. 

The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  the  sun, 

Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run, — 

Flocks  on  the  hillsides,  herds  on  the  plain, 

The  wilderness  gladdened  with  fruit  and  grain! 

But  the  living  faith  of  the  settlers  old 

A  dead  profession  their  children  hold  ;  .  .  . 

And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the  fathers  meant 

But  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent,  — 

A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 

When  the  Lord  should  call  at  the  break  of  day,  — 

Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 

And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity ! 

THE  PREACHER. 


30 

F.  A.  G.  Tholudc,  1799;  John  Fiske,  1842. 

NOTHING  fails  of  its  end.     Out  of  sight  sinks  the 

stone          • 

In  the  deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles  sweep  on, 
49 


MARCH 

Till  the  low-rippled  murmurs  along  the  shores  run, 
And  the  dark  and  dead  waters  leap  glad  in  the  sun. 

THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI. 


31 

Andrew  Marvell,  1621  ;  Joseph  Haydn,  1732  ;  Edward  Fitzgerald, 
1809. 

YET  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown  ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy 

shrine ! 

PROEM. 
5° 


"  The  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way." 

CHRIST  A  BEL. 

'T  IS  the  noon  of  the  springtime,  yet  never  a  bird 
In  the  wind-shaken  elm  or  the  maple  is  heard ; 
For  green  meadow-grasses  wide  levels  of  snow, 
And  blowing  of  drifts   where   the   crocus  should 

blow ; 

Where  wind-flower  and  violet,  amber  and  white, 
On  south-sloping  brooksides  should  smile  in  the 

light, 

O'er  the  cold  winter-beds  of  their  late-waking  roots 
The  frosty  flake  eddies,  the  ice-crystal  shoots  ; 
And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind-driven  heaps, 
Round  the  boles  of  the  pine-wood  the  ground-laurel 

creeps, 

Unkissed  of  the  sunshine,  unbaptized  of  showers, 
With  buds   scarcely  swelled,  which  should  burst 

into  flowers ! 

We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind  of  the  south  ! 
For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the  kiss  of  thy 

mouth ; 

For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest  from  God, 
Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of  the  sod ! 
Si 


APRIL 
I 

Sir  Thomas  Fowell  Buxton,  1786;  Bismarck,  1815- 

THANKS,  Mary !  for  this  wild-wood  token 
Of  Freya's  footsteps  drawing  near ; 

Almost,  as  in  the  rune  of  Asgard, 
The  growing  of  the  grass  I  hear. 

It  is  as  if  the  pine-trees  called  me 
From  ceiled  room  and  silent  books, 

To  see  the  dance  of  woodland  shadows, 
And  hear  the  song  of  April  brooks  ! 

THE  FIRST  FLOWERS. 


H.  C.  Andersen,  1805. 

O  THOU,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  Thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  Thy  pain, 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 

And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free  ; 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 

THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON. 
52 


APRIL 
3 

George  Herbert,  1593;  Washington  Irving,  1783. 

WE  faintly  hear,  we  dimly  see, 

In  differing  phrase  we  pray; 
But,  dim  or  clear,  we  own  in  Thee 

The  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way  ! 

No  pride  of  self  Thy  service  hath, 

No  place  for  me  and  mine ; 
Our  human  strength  is  weakness,  death 

Our  life,  apart  from  Thine. 

Apart  from  Thee  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  labor  vainly  done ; 
The  solemn  shadow  of  Thy  Cross 

Is  better  than  the  sun. 

OUR  MASTER. 


Benjamin  Peirce,  1809;  James  Freeman  Clarke,  1810. 

ALAS  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees  ! 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Aross  the  mournful  marbles  play ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  eve"r  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own  ! 

SNOW-BOUND. 

53 


APRIL 


F.  R.  Stockton,  1834;  A.  C.  Swinburne,  1837. 

O  SOUL  of  the  springtime,  its  light  and  its  breath, 
Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring  life  to  this 

death ; 

Renew  the  great  miracle  ;  let  us  behold 
The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre  rolled. 
Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and  coldness  has 

lain, 

Revive  with  the  warmth  and  the  brightness  again, 
And  in  blooming  of  flower  and  budding  of  tree 
The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny  see. 

APRIL. 


6 

Raphael,  1483,  and  died  1520. 

AROUND  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal  face, 

O  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild  ! 
Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 

Thy  Saviour  and  thy  Child  ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day 
When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 

RAPHAEL. 

54 


APRIL 
7 

William  Wordsworth,  1770;  W.  E.  Channing,  1780. 

THE  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 
The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown  daffodil,  have  found 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 

World-seen,  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 
And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand  ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  and  fall ; 

But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  Him  survive th  all. 

WORDSWORTH. 


David  Rittenhouse,  1732. 

A  CHARMfeD  life  unknown  to  death, 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath ; 

Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here :  Dodona's  shrine 
Still  murmurs  in  the  wind-swept  pine,  • 
All  is  that  e'er  hath  been. 

To- 
55 


APRIL 


Fisher  Ames,  1758. 

I  WANDERED  lonely  where  the  pine-trees  made 
Against  the  bitter  East  their  barricade, 

And,  guided  by  its  sweet 
Perfume,  I  found,  within  a  narrow  dell, 
The  trailing  spring  flower  tinted  like  a  shell 

Amid  dry  leaves  and  mosses  at  my  feet. 

From  under  dead  boughs,  for  whose  loss  the  pines 
Moaned  ceaseless  overhead,  the  blossoming  vines 

Lifted  their  glad  surprise, 

While  yet  the  bluebird  smoothed  in  leafless  trees 
His  feathers  ruffled  by  the  chill  sea-breeze, 

And  snowdrifts  lingered  under  April  skies. 

THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 


10 

C.  F.  S.  Hahnemann,  1755- 

GOD  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For,  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  :   "It  might  have  been  !  " 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 

MAUD  MULLER. 
56 


APRIL 
II 

George  Canning,  1770;  Edward  Everett,  1794. 

WE  have  seen,  in  these  years  of  trial,  very  great 
sacrifices  offered  upon  the  altar  of  patriotism,  — 
wealth,  ease,  home-love,  life  itself.  But  Edward 
Everett  did  more  than  this :  he  laid  on  that  altar 
not  only  his  time,  talents,  and  culture,  but  his  pride 
of  opinion,  his  long-cherished  views  of  policy,  his 
personal  and  political  predilections,  and  his  con- 
stitutional fastidiousness  of  conservatism.  With 
a  rare  and  noble  magnanimity,  he  met,  without 
hesitation,  the  demand  of  the  great  occasion.  All 
honor  to  him ! 

EDWARD  EVERETT. 


12 

Henry  Clay,  1777. 

MAN,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 
Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 
Shadow  and  illusion  go ; 
All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 
Now  contract  and  now  dilate  ; 
In  the  welter  of  this  sea, 
Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee  ! 

ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 

57 


APRIL 
13 

Madame  Guyon,  1648. 

NOT  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  flow ; 
Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

Still  Thy  love,  O  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison  ! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross  ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound  ! 

THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 


Horace  Bushnell,  1802. 

AND  all  about  the  softening  air 
Of  new-born  sweetness  tells ; 

And  the  ungathered  Mayflowers  wear 
The  tints  of  ocean  shells. 

The  old,  assuring  miracle 

Is  fresh  as  heretofore ; 
And  earth  takes  up  its  parable 

Of  life  from  death  once  more. 

THE  FRIEND'S  BURIAL. 
58 


APRIL 
15 

L.  A.  Thiers,  1797;  J.  L.  Motley,  1814;  Henry  James,  1843. 

DEATH  called  him  from  a  need  as  imminent 
As  that  from  which  the  Silent  William  went 
When  powers  of  evil,  like  the  smiting  seas 
On  Holland's  dikes,  assailed  her  liberties. 
Sadly,  while  yet  in  doubtful  balance  hung 
The  weal  and  woe  of  France,  the  bells  were  rung 
For  her  lost  leader.     Paralyzed  of  will, 
Above  his  bier  the  hearts  of  men  stood  still. 
Then,  as  if  set  to  his  dead  lips,  the  horn 
Of  Roland  wound  once  more  to  rouse  and  warn, 
The  old  voice  filled  the  air  !     His  last  brave  word 
Not  vainly  France  to  all  her  boundaries  stirred. 
Strong  as  in  life,  he  still  for  Freedom  wrought, 

As  the  dead  Cid  at  red  Toloso  fought. 

THIERS. 


16 

Sir  John  Franklin,  1786;  William  Chambers,  1800. 

SAD  it  is  the  mournful  yew-tree 
O'er  his  slumbers  may  not  wave ; 

Sad  it  is  the  English  daisy 
May  not  blossom  on  his  grave. 

But  his  tomb  shall  storm  and  winter 
Shape  and  fashion  year  by  year, 

Pile  his  mighty  mausoleum, 
Block  by  block,  and  tier  on  tier. 

LADY  FRANKLIN. 

59 


APRIL 


William  Gilmore  Simms,  1806. 

LIGHT,  warmth,  and  sprouting  greenness,  and  o'er 

all 

Blue,  stainless,  steel-bright  ether,  raining  down 
Tranquillity  upon  the  deep-hushed  town, 
The    freshening    meadows,     and    the    hillsides 

brown  ; 
Voice   of    the  west-wind    from    the    hills    of 

pine, 

And  the  brimmed  river  from  its  distant  fall, 
Low  hum  of  bees,  and  joyous  interlude 
Of  bird-songs  in  the  streamlet-skirting  wood,  — 
Heralds  and  prophecies  of  sound  and  sight,  .  .  . 
Once  more,  through  God's  great  love,  with  you  I 

share 
A  morn  of  resurrection  sweet  and  fair 

As  that  which  saw,  of  old,  in  Palestine, 
Immortal  Love  uprising  in  fresh  bloom 
From  the  dark  night  and  winter  of  the  tomb  ! 

PICTURES. 


18 


I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years : 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 
60 


APRIL 

The  west-winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 
I  hear  the  glad  streams  run ; 

The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

MY  PSALM. 


19 

Lexington  and  Concord,  1775. 

THEY  went  where  duty  seemed  to  call, 
They  scarcely  asked  the  reason  why ; 
They  only  knew  they  could  but  die, 

And  death  was  not  the  worst  of  all ! 

Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice, 
All  that  was  theirs  to  give,  they  gave. 
The  flowers  that  blossomed  from  their  grave 

Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 

Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well ; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 

Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour. 

LEXINGTON. 


2O 

W.  H.  Furness,  1808. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 
Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove  ; 
61 


APRIL 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 
And  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar; 
Nor  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air ; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS. 


21 

Reginald  Heber,  1783;  James  Martineau,  1805 ;  Charlotte  Bronte, 
1816;  H.  A.  Taine,  1828. 

GIVE  human  nature  reverence  for  the  sake 

Of  One  who  bore  it,  making  it  divine 

With  the  ineffable  tenderness  of  God ! 

Let  common  need,  the  brotherhood  of  prayer, 

The  heirship  of  an  unknown  destiny, 

The  unsolved  mystery  round  about  us,  make 

A  man  more  precious  than  the  Gold  of  Ophir ! 

AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


22 

Henry  Fielding,  1707;  Madame  de  Stael,  1766. 

THE  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 
And  blood  is  not  like  wine : 
62 


APRIL 

Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 
Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  Love  be  Fortune's  spur ; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

•* 

Oh,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 

And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 
But  love  has  never  known  a  law 

Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 

AMY  WENTWORTH. 


23 

St.  George ;  Shakespeare,  1564,  and  died  1616. 

AND  here,  to-day,  the  dead  look  down, 
The  kings  of  mind  again  we  crown ; 
We  hear  the  voices  lost  so  long, 
The  sage's  word,  the  sibyl's  song. 

Here  Greek  and  Roman  find  themselves 
Alive  along  these  crowded  shelves ; 
And  Shakespeare  treads  again  his  stage, 
And  Chaucer  paints  anew  his  age. 

As  if  some  Pantheon's  marbles  broke 
Their  stony  trance,  and  lived  and  spoke, 
Life  thrills  along  the  alcoved  hall, 
The  lords  of  thought  await  our  call ! 

THE  LIBRARY. 
63 


APRIL 
24 

Anthony  Trollope,  1815  ;  J.  T.  Fields,  died  1881. 

KEEP  for  us,  O  friend,  where'er 
Thou  art  waiting,  all  that  here 
Made  thy  earthly  presence  dear ; 

* 
Something  of  thy  pleasant  past 

On  a  ground  of  wonder  cast, 
In  the  stiller  waters  glassed! 

Keep  the  human  heart  of  thee  ; 
Let  the  mortal  only  be 
Clothed  in  immortality. 

And  when  fall  our  feet  as  fell 

Thine  upon  the  asphodel, 

Let  thy  old  smile  greet  us  well ; 

Proving  in  a  world  of  bliss 
What  we  fondly  dream  in  this,  — 
Love  is  one  with  holiness ! 

IN  MEMORY. 

25 
Oliver  Cromwell,  1599  ;  John  Keble,  1792. 

NOT  untrue  that  tale  of  old ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 
Subject  to  their  kingly  will ; 
64 


APRIL 

From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 
Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

26 
David  Hume,  1711 ;  Uhland,  1787;  Alice  Gary,  1820. 

HER  dark,  dilating  eyes  expressed 

The  broad  horizons  of  the  west ; 

Her  speech  dropped  prairie  flowers  ;  the  gold 

Of  harvest  wheat  about  her  rolled. 

Again  the  blackbirds  sing ;  the  streams 
Wake,  laughing,  from  their  winter  dreams, 
And  tremble  in  the  April  showers 
The  tassels  of  the  maple  flowers. 

But  not  for  her  has  spring  renewed 
The  sweet  surprises  of  the  wood  ; 
And  bird  and  flower  are  lost  to  her 

Who  was  their  best  interpreter ! 

THE  SINGER. 

27 
S.  F.  B.  Morse,  1791;  Louis  Kossuth,  1806;  Herbert  Spencer,  1820. 

TYPE  of  two  mighty  continents  !  —  combining 
The  strength  of  Europe  with   the  warmth  and 
glow 

65 


APRIL 

Of  Asian  song  and  prophecy,  —  the  shining 
Of  Orient  splendors  over  Northern  snow  ! 

To  KOSSUTH. 


FROM  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread  ; 
The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more 

The  fire  that  wakes  the  dead. 

THE  CABLE  HYMN. 


28 

Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  1801. 

THERE  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  his  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 
Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 

Breathe  once  again  the  Prophet's  prayer : 
"  Lord,  ope  their  eyes,  that  they  may  see  !  " 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK. 

66 


APRIL 
29 

Oliver  Ellsworth,  1745. 

SOMEWHAT  of  goodness,  something  true 
From  sun  and  spirit  shining  through 
All  faiths,  all  worlds,  as  tlrrough  the  dark 
Of  ocean  shines  the  lighthouse  spark, 
Attests  the  presence  everywhere 
Of  love  and  providential  care. 

MIRIAM. 


30 

First  Inauguration  of  Washington,  1789. 

O  CITY  sitting  by  the  Sea! 

How  proud  the  day  that  dawned  on  thee, 
When  the  new  era.  long  desired,  began, 
And,  in  its  need,  the  hour  had  found  the  man ! 

How  felt  the  land  in  every  part 
The  strong  throb  of  a  nation's  heart, 
As  its  great  leader  gave,  with  reverent  awe, 
His  pledge  to  Union,  Liberty,  and  Law! 

Lo  !  where  with  patient  toil  he  nursed 
And  trained  the  new-set  plant  at  first, 
The  widening  branches  of  a  stately  tree 
Stretch  from  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset  sea. 
67 


APRIL 

One  people  now,  all  doubt  beyond, 
His  name  shall  be  our  Union-bond; 
We  lift  our  hands  to  Heaven,  and  here  and  now 
Take  on  our  lips  the  old  Centennial  vow. 

THE  Vow  OF  WASHINGTON. 

68 


MY   PLAYMATE 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 

My  playmate  left  her  home, 
And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 

The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  ; 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May: 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 


69 


MAY 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 

Between  myself  and  thee  ! 
70 


MAY 
I 

Joseph  Addison,  1672  ;  Wellington,  1769. 

NATURE'S  mighty  miracle  is  still  over  and  around 
us ;  and  hence  awe,  wonder,  and  reverence  remain 
to  be  the  inheritance  of  humanity. 

THE  AGENCY  OF  EVIL. 

THE  vales  shall  laugh  in  flowers,  the  woods 
Grow  misty  green  with  leafing  buds, 
And  violets  and  wind-flowers  sway, 
Against  the  throbbing  heart  of  May. 

THE  CLEAR  VISION. 


2 
J.  G.  Palfrey,   1796. 

THE  seasons  went 

Their  rounds,  and  somewhat  to  his  spirit  lent 
Of  their  own  calm  and  measureless  content. 

Glad  even  to  tears,  he  heard  the  robin  sing 
His  song  of  welcome  to  the  Western  spring, 
And  bluebird  borrowing  from  the  sky  his  wing. 
THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 

3 

Nicol6  Macchiavelli,  1469. 

THE  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 
Has  never  ceased  to  play; 


MAY 


The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 
Has  never  died  away. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a  mountain  shrine ; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 
She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 


The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 

With  which  her  years  began, 
And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 

The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE. 


4 

J.  J.  Audubon,  1780;  W.  H.  Prescott,  1796;  T.  H.  Huxley,  1825. 

I  DIMLY  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS. 
72 


MAY 

5 

Empress  Euge'nie,  1826. 

LET  me  find  in  Thy  employ 
Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy ; 
Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 
And  to  heaven  acclimated, 
Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 
Seem  my  natural  habitude  ! 

ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 


His  light  shines  on  me  from  above, 
His  low  voice  speaks  within,  — 

The  patience  of  immortal  love 
Outwearying  mortal  sin. 

Not  mindless  of  the  growing  years 

Of  care  and  loss  and  pain, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  thankful  tears 

For  blessings  which  remain. 

If  dim  the  gold  of  life  has  grown, 

I  will  not  count  it  dross, 
Nor  turn  from  treasures  still  my  own 

To  sigh  for  lack  and  loss. 

MY  BIRTHDAY. 

73 


MAY 

7 

Robert  Browning,  1812;  Johannes  Brahms,  1833. 

NOT  by  the  page  word-painted 
Let  life  be  banned  or  sainted  : 
Deeper  than  written  scroll 
The  colors  of  the  soul. 

Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue  ; 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

MY  TRIUMPH. 


8 

O  GOLDEN  AGE,  whose  light  is  of  the  dawn, 

And  not  of  sunset,  forward,  not  behind, 

Flood  the  new  heavens  and  earth,  and  with  thee 

bring 

All  the  old  virtues,  whatsoever  things 
Are  pure  and  honest  and  of  good  repute, 
But  add  thereto  whatever  bard  has  sung 
Or  seer  has  told  of  when  in  trance  and  dream 
They  saw  the  Happy  Isles  of  prophecy  ! 
Let  Justice  hold  her  scale,  and  Truth  divide 
Between  the  right  and  wrong ;  but  give  the  heart 
The  freedom  of  its  fair  inheritance. 

PRELUDE  TO  AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

74 


MAY 
9 

John  Brown,  1800. 

PERISH  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil 
good ! 

Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with  hu- 
man blood  ! 

Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought 
which  underlies ; 

Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Chris- 
tian's sacrifice. 

BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 


IO 

Jared  Sparks,  1789. 

WHY  idly  seek  from  outward  things, 

The  answer  inward  silence  brings  ? 

Why  stretch  beyond  our  proper  sphere 

And  age,  for  that  which  lies  so  near? 

Why  climb  the  far-off  hills  with  pain, 

A  nearer  view  of  heaven  to  gain  ? 

In  lowliest  depths  of  bosky  dells 

The  hermit  Contemplation  dwells. 

A  fountain's  pine-hung  slope  his  seat, 

And  lotus-twined  his  silent  feet, 

Whence,  piercing  heaven,  with  screened  sight, 

He  sees  at  noon  the  stars,  whose  light 

Shall  glorify  the  coming  night. 

QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 

75 


MAY 
II 

J.  L.  Gerome,  1824. 

HOWEVER  full,  with  something  more 

We  fain  the  bag  would  cram ; 
We  sigh  above  our  crowded  nets 

For  fish  that  never  swam. 

No  bounty  of  indulgent  Heaven 

The  vague  desire  can  stay ; 
Self-love  is  still  a  Tartar  mill 

For  grinding  prayers  alway. 

THE  COMMON  QUESTION. 


12 

Justus  von  Liebig,  1803;  D.  G.  Rossetti,  1828. 

No  perfect  whole  can  our  nature  make  ; 
Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break ; 
The  orb  of  life  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side,  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's  gate 
For  the  plea  of  the  Devil's  advocate. 

THE  PREACHER. 

13 

Alphonse  Daudet,  1840;  Arthur  Sullivan,  1842. 

WE  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong,  — 
76 


MAY 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 

Than  "watch  one  hour  "  in  humbling  prayer. 
Life's  "  great  things,"  like  the  Syrian  lord, 

Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON. 


14 

Dante,  1265. 

THE  song  whose  thunderous  chime 
Eternal  echoes  render,  — 
The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme, 
And  Milton's  starry  splendor  ! 

BURNS. 


THOU  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises. 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 

All  the  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed,  — 
Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest. 

To — . 
77 


MAY 

15 

M.  W.  Balfe,  1808;  Montalembert,  1810. 

SWEET  in  the  fresh  green  meadows 
Sparrow  and  blackbird  sung ; 

Above  him  their  tinted  petals 
The  blossoming  orchards  hung. 

Around  on  the  wonderful  glory 

The  minister  looked  and  smiled ; 
"  How  good  is  the  Lord  who  gives  us 

These  gifts  from  His  hand,  my  child  ! 

"  Behold  in  the  bloom  of  apples 
And  the  violets  in  the  sward 
A  hint  of  the  old,  lost  beauty 
Of  the  Garden  of  the  Lord  !  " 

THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


16 

W.  H.  Seward,  1801. 

NATURE  is  not  solitude : 
She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood  ; 
Her  many  hands  reach  out  to  us, 
Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous  ; 
Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 
She  offers  to  our  ears  and  eyes. 

THE  MEETING. 

78 


MAY 
17 

Edward  Jenner,  1749. 

OVER  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 

A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay 

Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting  day 

Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 
It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 
Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 
Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes  ! 

THE  PREACHER. 


18 


John  Wilson,  1785. 

STILL  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sleeping ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 

And  blackberry-vines  are  creeping. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 

Deep  scarred  by  raps  official; 
The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 

The  jack-knife's  carved  initial ; 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing  ! 

IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 

79 


MAY 

19 

O  FOR  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow  ! 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


2O 

Balzac,  1799;  John  Stuart  Mill,  1806. 

THE  years  no  charm  from  Nature  take ; 

As  sweet  her  voices  call, 
As  beautiful  her  mornings  break, 

As  fair  her  evenings  fall. 

Love  watches  o'er  my  quiet  ways, 
Kind  voices  speak  my  name, 

And  lips  that  find  it  hard  to  praise 
Are  slow,  at  least,  to  blame. 
80 


MAY 

How  softly  ebb  the  tides  of  will ! 

How  fields,  once  lost  or  won, 
Now  lie  behind  me  green  and  still 

Beneath  a  level  sun  ! 

MY  BIRTHDAY. 


21 

Elizabeth  Fry,  1780. 

To  melt  the  hearts  that  harshness  turned  to  stone 
The  sweet  persuasion  of  her  lips  sufficed. 

And  guilt,  which  only  hate  and  fear  had  known, 
Saw  in  her  own  the  pitying  love  of  Christ 

So  wheresoe'er  the  guiding  Spirit  went 
She  followed,  finding  every  prison  cell 

It  opened  for  her  sacred  as  a  tent 
Pitched  by  Gennesaret  or  by  Jacob's  well. 

And  Pride  and  Fashion  felt  her  strong  appeal, 
And  priest  and  ruler  marvelled  as  they  saw 

How  hand  in  hand  went  wisdom  with  her  zeal, 
And  woman's  pity  kept  the  bounds  of  law. 

THE  Two  ELIZABETHS. 


22 
Richard  Wagner,  1813. 

WHAT  sings  the  brook  ?    What  oracle 
Is  in  the  pine-tree's  organ  swell  ? 
81 


MAY 

What  may  the  wind's  low  burden  be  ? 
The  meaning  of  the  moaning  sea  ? 
The  hieroglyphics  of  the  stars  ? 
Or  clouded  sunset's  crimson  bars  ? 
I  vainly  ask,  for  mocks  my  skill 
The  trick  of  Nature's  cipher  still. 

QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE. 


23 

Thomas  Hood,  1799 ;  Margaret  Fuller,  1810. 

HOOD,  under  all  his  whims  and  oddities,  conceals 
the  vehement  intensity  of  a  reformer.  The  iron  of 
the  world's  wrongs  had  entered  into  his  soul ;  there 
is  an  undertone  of  sorrow  in  his  lyrics. 

MIRTH  AND  MEDICINE. 


24 
Queen  Victoria,  1819. 

"THICKER  than  water,"  in  one  rill 

Through  centuries  of  story 
Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
We  share  with  you  its  good  and  ill, 
The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

To  ENGLISHMEN. 
82 


MAY 

25 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  1803. 

THE  mists  above  the  morning  rills 

Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer ; 
The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 

Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud, 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE. 
26 

HE  findeth  not  who  seeks  his  own, 
The  soul  is  lost  that 's  saved  alone. 
Not  on  one  favored  forehead  fell 
Of  old  the  fire-tongued  miracle, 
But  flamed  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 
The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
Heart  answers  heart :  in  one  desire 
The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire. 
"  Where  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  three," 
Our  Lord  hath  said,  "  I  there  will  be  !  " 

THE  MEETING. 
83 


MAY 

27 

i 

Julia  Ward  Howe,  1819. 

IF  it  is  not  permitted  us  to  believe  all  things, 
we  can  at  least  hope  them.  Despair  is  infidelity 
and  death.  Temporally  and  spiritually,  the  declara- 
tion of  inspiration  holds  good,  —  "  We  are  saved  by 
hope:'1 

UTOPIAN  SCHEMES. 


REJOICE  in  hope  !     The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 
Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 

Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light ! 

ASTR^EA  AT  THE  CAPITOL. 


28 

Thomas  Moore,  1779;  Louis  Agassiz,  1807. 

SAID  the  Master  to  the  youth  : 
'  We  have  come  in  search  of  truth, 
Trying  with  uncertain  key 
Door  by  door  of  mystery ; 
We  are  reaching,  through  His  laws, 
To  the  garment-hem  of  Cause.  .  .  . 
As  with  fingers  of  the  blind, 
We  are  groping  here  to  find 
What  the  hieroglyphics  mean 
Of  the  Unseen  in  the  seen, 
What  the  Thought  which  underlies 
84 


MAY 

Nature's  masking  and  disguise, 

What  it  is  that  hides  beneath 

Blight  and  bloom  and  birth  and  death. 

THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ. 


29 
Patrick  Henry,  1736. 

DEAR  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun,  — 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun,  — 

Rejoice  with  me  !  The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love ;  the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God  ! 

ASTRjEA  AT  THE  CAPITOL. 


30 

Decoration  Day. 

OUR  voices  take  a  sober  tone,  .  .  . 
And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened  for  the  sake 
Of  the  brave  hearts  that  never  more  shall  beat, 
The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unreturning  feet ! 

To  S.  E.  s.  AND  H.  W.  s. 
85 


MAY 

IF,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 
And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain 
Be  liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 


31 

John  A.  Andrew,  1818. 

HE  has  done  the  work  of  a  true  man,  — 
Crown  him,  honor  him,  love  him. 

Weep  over  him,  tears  of  woman, 
Stoop  manliest  brows  above  him  ! 

No  duty  could  overtask  him, 

No  need  his  will  outrun; 
Or  ever  our  lips  could  ask  him, 
His  hands  the  work  had  done. 

To  G.  L.  S. 
86 


JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC 

O  DWELLERS  in  the  stately  towns, 

What  come  ye  out  to  see  ? 
This  common  earth,  this  common  sky, 

This  water  flowing  free  ? 

As  gayly  as  these  kalmia  flowers 
Your  door-yard  blossoms  spring ; 

As  sweetly  as  these  wild  wood  birds 
Your  caged  minstrels  sing. 

You  find  but  common  bloom  and  green, 

The  rippling  river's  rune, 
The  beauty  which  is  everywhere 

Beneath  the  skies  of  June. 

From  ceiled  rooms,  from  silent  books, 
From  crowded  car  and  town, 

Dear  Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  lap, 
We  lay  our  tired  heads  down. 

Cool,  summer  wind,  our  heated  brows ; 

Blue  river,  through  the  green 
Of  clustering  pines,  refresh  the  eyes 

Which  all  too  much  have  seen. 
87 


JUNE 

For  us  these  pleasant  woodland  ways 
Are  thronged  with  memories  old, 

Have  felt  the  grasp  of  friendly  hands 
And  heard  love's  story  told. 

A  sacred  presence  overbroods 
The  earth  whereon  we  meet ; 

These  winding  forest-paths  are  trod 
By  more  than  mortal  feet. 

Old  friends  called  from  us  by  the  voice 
Which  they  alone  could  hear, 

From  mystery  to  mystery, 
From  life  to  life,  draw  near. 

More  closely  for  the  sake  of  them 
Each  other's  hands  we  press  ; 

Our  voices  take  from  them  a  tone 
Of  deeper  tenderness. 

Our  joy  is  theirs,  their  trust  is  ours, 

Alike  below,  above, 
Or  here  or  there,  about  us  fold 

The  arms  of  one  great  love ! 


JUNE 


A  YEAR  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There  's  the  same  sweet-clover  smell  in  the  breeze ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

TELLING  THE  BEES. 


John  Randolph,  1773  ;  Thomas  Hardy,  1840. 

BARD,  Sage,  and  Tribune !  in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn  like  lightning  blasting ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 
From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 

Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 
Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 

And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 
A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
89 


JUNE 

And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 
Her  storied  pages  showing. 

RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 

3 

Richard  Cobden,  1804;  Henry  James,  Sr.,  1811. 

WHERE  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done  ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense ; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose  stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST. 


0  FOR  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 

1  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees.  .  .  . 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 

90 


JUNE 

Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides ! 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


5 

Adam  Smith,  1723. 

O,  WELCOME  calm  of  heart  and  mind  ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 


6 

Nathan  Hale,  1755;  William  Francis  Bartlett,  1840. 

As  Galahad  pure,  as  Merlin  sage, 
What  worthier  knight  was  found 

To  grace  in  Arthur's  golden  age 
The  fabled  Table  Round  ? 

A  voice,  the  battle's  trumpet-note, 

To  welcome  and  restore ; 
A  hand,  that  all  unwilling  smote, 

To  heal  and  build  once  more ! 
91 


JUNE 

A  soul  of  fire,  a  tender  heart 

Too  warm  for  hate,  he  knew 
The  generous  victor's  graceful  part 

To  sheathe  the  sword  he  drew. 

WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT. 


CARE,  that  kills  the  cat,  may  plough 
Wrinkles  in  the  miser's  brow, 
Deepen  envy's  spiteful  frown, 
Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 
Plague  ambition's  dream,  and  sit 
Heavy  on  the  hypocrite. 
Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 
And  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
Smiling  on  the  threshold  sit. 

To  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER. 

8 

Charles  Reade,  1814 ;  J.  E.  Millais,  1829. 

"  MORE  wise,"  she  said,  "  than  those  who  swarm 

Our  hills  in  middle  summer, 
She  came,  when  June's  first  roses  blow, 
To  greet  the  early  comer. 

"  Her  step  grew  firmer  on  the  hills 

That  watch  our  homesteads  over ; 
On  cheek  and  lip,  from  summer  fields, 
She  caught  the  bloom  of  clover. 
92 


JUNE 

"  For  health  comes  sparkling  in  the  streams 

From  cool  Chocorua  stealing  : 
There  's  iron  in  our  Northern  winds ; 
Our  pines  are  trees  of  healing." 

AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


9 

George  Stephenson,  1781;  John  Howard  Payne,  1791. 

THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish  feet 
Have  climbed  the  earliest;  and  the  streams  most 

sweet 

Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips  drank, 
Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy  bank  : 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home's  hearth- 
light 

Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging  through  the 
night ; 

And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller  sees 

In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native  trees. 

THB  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


IO 

SING  soft,  sing  low,  our  lowland  river, 
Under  thy  banks  of  laurel  bloom ; 

Softly  and  sweet,  as  the  hour  beseemeth, 

Sing  us  the  songs  of  peace  and  home. 

93 


JUNE 

But  to  Him  who  gives  us  beauty  for  ashes, 
And  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning  long, 

Let  thy  hills  give  thanks,  and  all  thy  waters 
Break  into  jubilant  waves  of  song  ! 

Bring  us  the  air  of  hills  and  forests, 
The  sweet  aroma  of  birch  and  pine, 

Give  us  a  waft  of  the  north-wind  laden 
With  sweetbrier  odors  and  breath  of  kine  ! 

REVISITED  (1865). 


II 

Ben  Jonson,  1574  ;  George  Wither,  1588. 

O  POET  rare  and  old ! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies ; 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturnian  lies. 

The  universal  prayer 

And  hope  are  not  in  vain ; 

Rise,  brothers !  and  prepare 
The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 


12 

Charles  Kingsley,  1819. 

RING,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
94 


JUNE 

Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  triumph  is  my  own ! 

Parcel  and  part  of  all, 
I  keep  the  festival, 
Fore-reach  the  good  to  be, 
And  share  the  victory. 

Mv  TRIUMPH. 


13 

Madame  d'Arblay,  1752  ;  Thomas  Arnold,  1795. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 

To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 
The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 

Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

MY  PSALM. 

95 


JUNE 


Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  1811. 

To  her  whose  vigorous  pencil-strokes 
Sketched  into  life  her  Oldtown  Folks  ; 
Whose  fireside  stories,  grave  or  gay, 
In  quaint  Sam  Lawson's  vagrant  way, 
With  old  New  England's  flavor  rife, 
Waifs  from  her  rude  idyllic  life, 
Are  racy  as  the  legends  old 
By  Chaucer  or  Boccaccio  told  ;  .  . 
To  her,  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 
To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave, 
Made  all  his  want  and  sorrow  known, 
And  all  earth's  languages  his  own. 

A  GREETING. 

15 

Magna  Charta,  signed  1215. 

O  ENGLISHMEN  !  —  in  hope  and  creed, 

In  blood  and  tongue  our  brothers  ! 
We,  too,  are  heirs  of  Runnymede  ; 
And  Shakespeare's  fame  and  Cromwell's  deed 
-  Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

To  ENGLISHMEN. 


16 

THE  birds  are  glad ;  the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness  ;  all  the  hills 
96 


JUNE 

Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky ; 

But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 

For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 

A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 

In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 

And  yet,  dear  heart !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I  hold  ? 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 

SNOW-BOUND. 


17 

John  Wesley,  1703  ;  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  1775. 

No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they, 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 

Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 

Their  feet  had  trodden  peaceful  ways ; 

They  loved  not  strife,  they  dreaded  pain  ; 

They  saw  not,  what  to  us  is  plain, 
That  God  would  make  man's  wrath  His  praise. 

No  seers  were  they,  but  simple  men ; 
Its  vast  results  the  future  hid : 
The  meaning  of  the  work  they  did 

Was  strange  and  dark  and  doubtful  then. 

LEXINGTON. 

97 


JUNE 
18 

Battle  of  Waterloo,  1815. 

STILL,  when  the  sun  of  summer  burns, 
My  longing  for  the  hills  returns ; 
And  northward,  leaving  at  my  back 
The  warm  vale  of  the  Merrimac, 
I  go  to  meet  the  winds  of  morn, 
Blown  down  the  hill-gaps,  mountain-born, 
Breathe  scent  of  pines,  and  satisfy 
The  hunger  of  a  lowland  eye. 

A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 


19 

Confucius,  551  B.  c. ;  Pascal,  1623. 

TRUTH  is  one ; 

And,  in  all  lands  beneath  the  sun, 
Whoso  hath  eyes  to  see  may  see 
The  tokens  of  its  unity.  .  . 
The  angels  to  our  Aryan  sires 
Talked  by  the  earliest  household  fires ; 
The  prophets  of  the  elder  day, 
The  slant-eyed  sages  of  Cathay, 
Read  not  the  riddle  all  amiss 
Of  higher  life  evolved  from  this. 

MIRIAM. 
98 


JUNE 
20 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauld,  1743. 

AND  not  in  vain  in  this  soft  air 
Shall  hard-strung  nerves  relax, 

Not  all  in  vain  the  o'erworn  brain 
Forego  its  daily  tax. 

Unheeded  let  the  newsboy  call, 

Aside  the  ledger  lay : 
The  world  will  keep  its  treadmill  step 

Though  we  fall  out  to-day. 

The  truants  of  life's  weary  school, 

Without  excuse  from  thrift 
We  change  for  once  the  gains  of  toil 

For  God's  unpurchased  gift. 

JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC. 

21 

Bishop  Stubbs,  1825. 

O  FEARFUL  heart  and  troubled  brain  ! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this, 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet  stave, 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave ; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 

THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 

99 


JUNE 

22 
Thomas  Day,  1748;  Giuseppe  Mazzini,  1805. 

O  YOUTH  and  Beauty,  loved  of  all ! 

Ye  pass  from  girlhood's  gate  of  dreams  ; 
In  broader  ways  your  footsteps  fall, 

Ye  test  the  truth  of  all  that  seems. 

Give  and  receive  ;  go  forth  and  bless 
The  world  that  needs  the  hand  and  heart 

Of  Martha's  helpful  carefulness 
No  less  than  Mary's  better  part. 

AT  SCHOOL-CLOSE. 


23 
Midsummer  Eve ;  F.  O.  C.  Darley,  1822. 

AWAY  with  weary  cares  and  themes ! 
Swing  wide  the  moonlit  gate  of  dreams ! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which  teems 

With  wonders  and  romances ! 
Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 

Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 

Lo  !  once  again  our  feet  we  set 
On  still  green  wood-paths,  twilight  wet, 
By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 
The  roots  of  spectral  beeches ; 


JUNE 

Again  the  hearth-fire  glimmers  o'er 
Home's  whitewashed  wall  and  painted  floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 
Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

To  MY  SISTER. 


24 
St.  John  Baptist ;  John  Hampden  died,  1643. 

THE  English  revolution  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury was  prodigal  in  the  development  of  the  real  no- 
bility of  the  mind  and  heart.  Its  history  is  bright 
with  the  footprints  of  men  whose  very  names  still 
stir  the  hearts  of  freemen,  the  world  over,  like  a 
trumpet  peal.  Say  what  we  may  of  its  fanaticism, 
laugh  as  we  may  at  its  extravagant  enjoyment  of 
newly  acquired  religious  and  civil  liberty,  who  shall 
now  venture  to  deny  that  it  was  the  golden  age 
of  England  ? 

JOHN  BUNYAN. 


25 

O  FOR  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread ; 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  doorstone,  gray  and  rude ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
101 


JUNE 

While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY. 


26 

Philip  Doddridge,  1702. 

THE  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning, 
And  manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold     . 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 

From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure, 
The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 

With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

BURNS. 


27 
Sir  William  Pepperrell,  1696. 

STILL  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 
102 


JUNE 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all ! 

SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 


28 

Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  1712.  - 

UXTROD  by  him  the  path  he  showed, 
Sweet  pictures  on  his  easel  glowed 
Of  simple  faith,  and  loves  of  home, 
And  virtue's  golden  days  to  come. 

But  weakness,  shame,  and  folly  made 
The  foil  to  all  his  pen  portrayed ; 
Still,  where  his  dreamy  splendors  shone, 
The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


29 

St.  Peter ;  Rubens,  1577 ;  Celia  Thaxter,  1835. 

THE  letter  fails,  and  systems  fall, 
And  every  symbol  wanes  ; 

The  Spirit  over-brooding  all 
Eternal  Love  remains. 

And  not  for  signs  in  heaven  above 
Or  earth  below  they  look, 
103 


JUNE 

Who  know  with  John  His  smile  of  love, 
With  Peter  His  rebuke. 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense 

Of  sorrow  over  sin, 
He  is  His  own  best  evidence, 

His  witness  is  within. 

OUR  MASTER. 

30 
Horace  Vernet,  1789. 

DID  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 

To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 

The  all-compassionate  Father's  care  ? 

In  the  white  soul  that  stooped  to  raise 

The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 

Thou  saw'st  the  Christ,  whom  angels  praise  ! 

A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The  still  small  Voice  that  spake  to  thee 

Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery ! 

Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 

The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 

One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise. 

The  equal  Father  in  rain  and  sun, 
His  Christ  in  the  good  to  evil  done, 
His  Voice  in  thy  soul;  — and  the  Three  are  One  ! 

TRINITAS. 

104 


SUMMER   BY   THE   LAKESIDE 

WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 
Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep ! 

O  isles  of  calm  !  O  dark,  still  wood  ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude ! 

0  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 

And  skies,  —  the  hollow  of  God's  hand ! 

Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain  friends ! 
With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

1  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 
I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 
Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 
105 


JULY 


I  CALL  to  mind  the  summer  day, 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 
The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play, 

And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying  ; 
And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

BURNS, 


2 

Marston  Moor,  1644. 

THEN  Freedom  sternly  said :  "  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped." 

THE  WATCHERS. 
1 06 


JULY 
3 

John  Singleton  Copley,  1737. 

FOR  art  and  labor  met  in  truce, 
For  beauty  made  the  bride  of  use, 
We  thank  Thee ;  but,  withal,  we  crave 
The  austere  virtues  strong  to  save, 
The  honor  proof  to  place  or  gold, 
The  manhood  never  bought  nor  sold ! 

Oh  make  Thou  us,  through  centuries  long, 
In  peace  secure,  in  justice  strong ; 
Around  our  gift  of  freedom  draw 
The  safeguards  of  Thy  righteous  law  ; 
And,  cast  in  some  diviner  mould, 
Let  the  new  cycle  shame  the  old ! 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN. 


Independence  Day ;  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  1804;  Garibaldi,  '807. 

WE  give  thy  natal  day  to  hope, 
O  Country  of  our  love  and  prayer ! 

Thy  way  is  down  no  fatal  slope, 
But  up  to  freer  sun  and  air. 

Tried  as  by  furnace-fires,  and  yet 
By  God's  grace  only  stronger  made, 

In  future  tasks  before  thee  set 
Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  old-time  aid. 


107 


JULY 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due, 

So  runs  our  loyal  dream  of  thee ; 
God  of  our  fathers !  —  make  it  true. 

OUR  COUNTRY. 


5 

D.  G.  Farragut,  1801 ;  "  George  Sand,"  1804. 

FAIR  First-Day  mornings,  steeped  in  summer  calm, 
Warm,  tender,  restful,  sweet  with  woodland  balm, 
Came  to  him,  like  some  mother-hallowed  psalm 
To  the  tired  grinder  at  the  noisy  wheel 
Of  labor,  winding  off  from  memory's  reel 
A  golden  thread  of  music. 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 

6 

John  Huss,  1373  ;  John  Flaxman,  1755. 

THE  path  of  life  we  walk  to-day 

Is  strange  as  that  the  Hebrews  trod  ; 

We  need  the  shadowing  rock,  as  they,  — 
We  need,  like  them,  the  guides  of  God. 

God  send  His  angels,  Cloud  and  Fire, 
To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand ! 

God  give  our  hearts  their  long  desire, 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land  ! 

"  THE  ROCK  "  IN  EL  GHOR. 

1 08 


JULY 

7 

GOOD-BY  to  pain  and  care  !     I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day : 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All  burdens  from   the   heart,  all  weary  thoughts 
away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath  —  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see  — 

Waves  in  the  sun  —  the  white-winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam  — 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  south-wind 
free. 

HAMPTON  BEACH. 


8 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  1790. 

IN  common  ways,  with  common  men, 

He  served  his  race  and  time 
As  well  as  if  his  clerkly  pen 

Had  never  danced  to  rhyme. 

If,  in  the  thronged  and  noisy  mart, 

The  Muses  found  their  son, 
Could  any  say  his  tuneful  art 

A  duty  left  undone  ? 

FITZ-GRKENK  HALLECK. 
109 


JULY 


Henry  Hallam,  1777. 

AND  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 

By  all  things  near  and  far ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee, 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea ! 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth, 

Thejr  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 
And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 

Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE. 


IO 

John  Calvin,  1509;  Robert  Chambers,  1802. 

I  REVERENCE  old-time  faith  and  men, 
But  God  is  near  us  now  as  then ; 
His  force  of  love  is  still  unspent, 
His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent ; 
And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 
Outgrows  the  cramping  bounds  of  creeds. 

THE  MEETING. 
110 


JULY 
ii 

John  Quincy  Adams,  1767. 

O  FOR  the  tongue  of  him  who  lies  at  rest 

In  Quincy's  shade  of  patrimonial  trees, — 
Last  of  the  Puritan  tribunes  and  the  best. 

To  KOSSUTH. 

HE  rests  with  the  immortals  ;  his  journey  has  been 

long : 
For  him  no  wail  of  sorrow,  but  a  paean  full  and 

strong ! 
So  well  and  bravely  has  he  done  the  work  he  found 

to  do, 
To  justice,  freedom,  duty,  God,  and  man  forever 

true. 

JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 


12 

H.  D.  Thoreau,  1817. 

HIMSELF  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 

That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 

Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old, 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes  who  interpreted 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said. 

SNOW-BOUND. 
Ill 


JULY 

13 

AND  if  the  husband  or  the  wife 
In  home's  strong  light  discovers 

Such  slight  defaults  as  failed  to  meet 
The  blinded  eyes  of  lovers, 

Why  need  we  care  to  ask  ?  —  who  dreams 

Without  their  thorns  of  roses, 
Or  wonders  that  the  truest  steel 

The  readiest  spark  discloses  ? 

For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 

The  secret  of  true  living ; 
Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows 

The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 

AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


14 

John  Gibson  Lockhart,  1794. 

"  HANDS  that  ope  but  to  receive 
Empty  close ;  they  only  live 
Richly  who  can  richly  give. 

"  Still,"  she  sighed,  with  moistening  eyes, 
"  Love  is  sweet  in  any  guise ; 
But  its  best  is  sacrifice  ! 

"  He  who,  giving,  does  not  crave 
Likest  is  to  Him  who  gave 
Life  itself  the  loved  to  save. 
112 


JULY 

"  Love,  that  self-forgetful  gives, 
Sows  surprise  of  ripened  sheaves, 
Late  or  soon  its  own  receives." 

THE  Two  LOVES. 


15 
Rembrandt,  1606. 

THEY  sat  and  watched  in  idle  mood 

The  gleam  and  shade  of  lake  and  wood,  — 

The  beach  the  keen  light  smote, 

The  white  sail  of  a  boat,  — 

Swan  flocks  of  lilies  shoreward  lying, 
In  sweetness,  not  in  music,  dying,  — 
Hardhack,  and  virgin's-bower, 
And  white-spiked  clethra-flower. 

THE  MAIDS  OF  ATTITASH. 


16 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  1723. 

THE  Beauty  which  old  Greece  or  Rome 
Sung,  painted,  wrought,  lies  close  at  home ; 

We  need  but  eye  and  ear 
In  all  our  daily  walks  to  trace 
The  outlines  of  incarnate  grace, 

The  hymns  of  gods  to  hear ! 

To* 

"3 


JULY 
17 

Isaac  Watts,  1674. 

SOMETIMES  comes  to  soul  and  sense 
The  feeling  which  is  evidence 
That  very  near  about  us  lies 
The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 
The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 
Impinges  on  this  world  of  ours. 
The  breath  of  a  diviner  air 
Blows  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer.  .  .  . 
With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands, 
The  passive  soul  in  waiting  stands 
To  feel,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew, 
The  One  true  Life  its  own  renew. 

THE  MEETING. 


18 

George  Fox,  1624;  Gilbert  White,  1720;  W.  M.  Thackeray,  1811. 

O  BEAUTY,  old  yet  ever  new  ! 

Eternal  Voice,  and  Inward  Word, 
The  Logos  of  the  Greek  and  Jew, 

The  old  sphere-music  which  the  Samian  heard  ! 

Truth  which  the  sage  and  prophet  saw, 
Long  sought  without,  but  found  within, 

The  Law  of  Love  beyond  all  law, 

The  Life  o'erflooding  mortal  death  and  sin  ! 
114 


JULY 

Shine  on  us  with  the  light  which  glowed 
Upon  the  trance-bound  shepherd's  way, 

Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed 
And  drowned  by  tides  of  everlasting  Day. 

THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 


A  STRANGER  now,  a  world-worn  man, 

Is  he  who  bears  my  name ; 
But  thou,  methinks,  whose  mortal  life 

Immortal  youth  became, 

Art  evermore  the  same. 

Thou  art  not  here,  thou  art  not  there, 

Thy  place  I  cannot  see  ; 
I  only  know  that  where  thou  art 

The  blessed  angels  be, 

And  heaven  is  glad  for  thee. 

Look  forth  once  more  through  space  and  time, 

And  let  thy  sweet  shade  fall 
In  tenderest  grace  of  soul  and  form 

On  memory's  frescoed  wall. 

A  shadow,  and  yet  all ! 

A  SEA  DREAM. 

2O 

John  Sterling,  1806. 

METHIXKS  the  spirit's  temper  grows 
Too  soft  in  this  still  air ; 
"5 


JULY 

Somewhat  the  restful  heart  foregoes 
Of  needed  watch  and  prayer. 

The  bark  by  tempest  vainly  tossed 

May  founder  in  the  calm, 
And  he  who  braved  the  polar  frost 

Faint  by  the  isles  of  balm. 

MY  BIRTHDAY. 


21 

Robert  Burns  died,  1796. 

TO-DAY  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy ! 
We  take,  with  thanks,  the  gold  of  Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The  songs  the  bard  himself  might  sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS. 


22 

WHEN  heats  as  of  a  tropic  clime 

Burned  all  our  inland  valleys  through, 

Three  friends,  the  guests  of  summer  time, 

Pitched  their  white  tent  where  sea-winds  blew. 

Behind  them,  marshes,  seamed  and  crossed 

With  narrow  creeks,  and  flower-embossed, 
116 


JULY 

Stretched  to  the  dark  oak  wood,  whose  leafy  arms 
Screened  from  the  stormy  East  the  pleasant  inland 
farms. 

They  rested  there,  escaped  awhile 

From  cares  that  wear  the  life  away, 
To  eat  the  lotus  of  the  Nile 

And  drink  the  poppies  of  Cathay,  — 
To  fling  their  loads  of  custom  down, 
Like  drift-weed,  on  the  sand-slopes  brown, 
And  in  the  sea-waves  drown  the  restless  pack 
Of  duties,  claims,  and  needs  that  barked  upon  their 
track. 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


23 

Charlotte  Cushman,  1816. 

OUR  common  Master  did  not  pen 
His  followers  up  from  other  men ;  .  .  . 
His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 
That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk, 
His  wayside  texts  were  flowers  and  birds, 
Where  mingled  with  His  gracious  words 
The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 
And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee. 

THE  MEETING. 
117 


JULY 

24 

Alexandre  Dumas,  1803. 

WHAT  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves  shuts 
down! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them  rise  and 
fall. 

HAMPTON  BEACH. 


25 
St.  James. 

WE  live  by  Faith ;  but  Faith  is  not  the  slave 
Of  text  and  legend.     Reason's  voice  and  God's, 
Nature's  and  Duty's,  never  are  at  odds. 

What  asks  our  Father  of  His  children,  save 

Justice  and  mercy  and  humility, 
A  reasonable  service  of  good  deeds, 
Pure  living,  tenderness  to  human  needs, 

Reverence  and  trust,  and  prayer  for  light  to  see 
118 


JULY 

The  Master's  footprints  in  our  daily  ways? 
No  knotted  scourge  nor  sacrificial  knife, 
But  the  calm  beauty  of  an  ordered  life 
Whose  very  breathing  is  unworded  praise !  — 
A  life  that  stands  as  all  true  lives  have  stood, 
Firm-rooted  in  the  faith  that  God  is  Good. 

REQUIREMENT. 

26 

Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed,  1802. 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 
Of  ocean  flowers, 

Born  where  the  golden  drift 

Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 

Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of  water,  to  the  cool  still  coral  bowers, 
Where,  under  rainbows  of  perpetual  showers, 

God's  gardens  of  the  deep 

His  patient  angels  keep; 
Gladdening  the  dim,  strange  solitude 

With  fairest  forms  and  hues. 

To  Avis  KEENE. 
[On  Receiving  a  Basket  of  Sea~Afosses.] 

27 
Thomas  Campbell,  1777;  Atlantic  Telegraph  completed,  1866. 

FROM  world  to  world  his  couriers  fly, 
Thought-winged  and  shod  with  fire ; 

The  angel  of  His  stormy  sky 
Rides  down  the  sunken  wire. 
119 


JULY 

Weave  on,  swift  shuttle  of  the  Lord, 

Beneath  the  deep  so  far, 
The  bridal  robe  of  earth's  accord, 

The  funeral  shroud  of  war  ! 

For  lo !  the  fall  of  Ocean's  wall 
Space  mocked  and  time  outrun ; 

And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 
Is  as  the  thought  of  one  ! 

THE  CABLE  HYMN. 


28 

Alexandre  Dumas,  the  Younger,  1824. 

NEED  has  its  rights,  necessity  its  claim. 
Yea,  even  self-wrought  misery  and  shame 
Test  well  the  charity  suffering  long  and  kind. 
The  home-pressed  question  of  the  age  can  find 
No  answer  in  the  catch-words  of  the  blind 
Leaders  of  blind.     Solution  there  is  none 
Save  in  the  Golden  Rule  of  Christ  alone. 

THE  PROBLEM. 


29 

Alexis  de  Tocqueville,  1805. 

ROCKED  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely  ; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 
120 


JULY 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  His  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 


30 

Samuel  Rogers,  1763. 

DROP  Thy  still  dews  of  quietness, 

Till  all  our  strivings  cease ; 
Take  from  our  souls  the  strain  and  stress, 
And  let  our  ordered  lives  confess 

The  beauty  of  Thy  peace. 

Breathe  through  the  heats  of  our  desire 

Thy  coolness  and  Thy  balm ; 
Let  sense  be  dumb,  let  flesh  retire  ; 
Speak  through  the  earthquake,  wind,  and  fire, 

O  still,  small  voice  of  calm  ! 

THE  BREWING  OF  SOMA. 
121 


JULY 
31 

George  Henry  Thomas,  1816. 

AND  light  is  mingled  with  the  gloom, 

And  joy  with  grief ; 
Divinest  compensations  come, 
Through  thorns  of  judgment  mercies  bloom 

In  sweet  relief. 

Who  murmurs  that  in  these  dark  days 

His  lot  is  cast  ? 

God's  hand  within  the  shadow  lays 
The  stones  whereon  His  gates  of  praise 

Shall  rise  at  last. 

Turn  and  o'erturn,  O  outstretched  Hand ! 

Nor  stint,  nor  stay ; 

The  years  have  never  dropped  their  sand 
On  mortal  issue  vast  and  grand 

As  ours  to-day. 

ANNIVERSARY  POEM  (1863). 
122 


PRELUDE   TO   AMONG   THE   HILLS 

ALONG  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  gold 
That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  goldenrod, 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal  flowers 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves. 
The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 
Wing-weary  with  its  long  flight  from  the  south, 
Unfelt ;  yet,  closely  scanned,  yon  maple  leaf 
With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in  dreams, 
Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 
On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neighboring  hill, 
Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
The  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snowdrift  still 
Defied  the  dog-star.     Through  the  open  door 
A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers  —  gray  heliotrope, 
And  white  sweet  clover,  and  shy  mignonette  — 
Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 
123 


AUGUST 


Lammas;  George  Ticknor,  1791;  Cavour,  1810. 

MY  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds, 
Of  summer  sights  my  languid  eye ; 

Beyond  the  dusty  village  bounds 

I  loiter  in  my  daily  rounds, 
And  in  the  noontime  shadows  lie. 

I  hear  the  wild  bee  wind  his  horn, 

The  bird  swings  on  the  ripened  wheat, 
The  long  green  lances  of  the  corn 
Are  tilting  in  the  winds  of  morn, 
The  locust  shrills  his  song  of  heat. 

THE  SUMMONS. 


Joseph  Sturge,  1793  ;  E.  A.  Freeman,  1823 ;  F.  Marion  Crawford, 
1854. 

THANKS  for  the  good  man's  beautiful  example, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  sacred  crypt  or  altar  of  a  temple 

Still  vocal  with  God's  law  ; 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  persuasion, 

But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 
And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  each  occasion 

Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE. 
124 


AUGUST 


Juliana  Horatia  Ewing,  1841. 

OUR  sweet  illusions  only  die 
Fulfilling  love's  sure  prophecy ; 
And  every  wish  for  better  things 
An  undreamed  beauty  nearer  brings. 

For  fate  is  servitor  of  love  ; 
Desire  and  hope  and  longing  prove 
The  secret  of  immortal  youth, 
And  Nature  cheats  us  into  truth. 

THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  1792  ;  Edward  Irving,  1792. 

THE  glorious  ideal  of  Shelley,  who,  atheist  as  he 
was  through  early  prejudice  and  defective  educa- 
tion, saw  the  horizon  of  the  world's  future  kindling 
with  the  light  of  a  better  day,  —  that  hope  and  that 
faith  which  constitute,  as  it  were,  the  world's  life, 
and  without  which  it  would  be  dark  and  dead,  can- 
not be  in  vain. 

THE  WORLD'S  END. 


THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder,  slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain ; 
125 


AUGUST 

And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew  ! 

ALL'S  WELL. 


6 

Fe'nelon,  1651  ;  Tennyson,  1809. 

OH,  more  than  thrice-blest  relic,  more 
Than  solemn  rite  or  sacred  lore, 
The  holy  life  of  one  who  trod 
The  foot-marks  of  the  Christ  of  God! 

He  lived  the  Truth  which  reconciled 
The  strong  man  Reason,  Faith  the  child ; 
In  him  belief  and  act  were  one, 
The  homilies  of  duty  done  ! 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  1795. 

AND  there,  on  breezy  morns,  they  saw 
The  fishing-schooners  outward  run, 

Their  low-bent  sails  in  tack  and  flaw 
Turned  white  or  dark  to  shade  and  sun. 
126 


AUGUST 

Sometimes,  in  calms  of  closing  day, 
They  watched  the  spectral  mirage  play, 
Saw  low,  far  islands  looming  tall  and  nigh, 
And  ships,  with  upturned  keels,  sail  like  a  sea  the 
sky. 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


8 


A  GLIMMER  of  heat  was  in  the  air,  — 
The  dark  green  woods  were  still ; 

And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder-cloud 
Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

THE  EXILES. 

9 

Izaak  Walton,  1593  ;  John  Dryden,  1631. 

Passages 

From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet  and  fresh 

As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staffordshire, 

127 


AUGUST 

Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  southwest  wind 

Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin,  white  hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 


IO 

LIFE  shall  on  and  upward  go ; 

Th'  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 

To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 

Which  God  repeats. 

Take  heart !  the  Waster  builds  again,  — 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath; 
The  tares  may  perish,  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Wake  thou  and  watch  !  the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light ! 

THE  REFORMER. 


II 

Jeffries  Wyman,  1814. 

WHITE  with  its   sun-bleached   dust,  the  pathway 

winds 

Before  me  ;  dust  is  on  the  shrunken  grass, 
And  on  the  trees  beneath  whose  boughs  I  pass  ; 
128 


AUGUST 

Frail  screen  against  the  Hunter  of  the  sky, 
Who,  glaring  on  me  with  his  lidless  eye, 

While  mounting  with  his   dog-star  high  and 

higher 
Ambushed  in  light  intolerable,  unbinds 

The  burnished  quiver  of  his  shafts  of  fire. 
Between  me  and  the  hot  fields  of  his  South 
A  tremulous  glow,  as  from  a  furnace-mouth, 
Glimmers  and  swims  before  my  dazzled  sight, 

As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his  ire 
Broke  as  they  fell,  and  shattered  into  light. 

PICTURES. 

12 

Robert  Southey,  1774. 

FAINT  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness ;  truth  itself  is  strong ; 
The  lion's  strength,  the  eagle's  speed, 
Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

Thy  nature,  which,  through  fire  and  flood, 
To  place  or  gain  finds  out  its  way, 

Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good, 
And  duty's  holiest  call  obey ! " 

THE  VOICES. 
13 

FLOWERS  spring  to  blossom  where  she  walks 

The  careful  ways  of  duty  ; 
Our  hard,  stiff  lines  of  life  with  her 

Are  flowing  curves  of  beauty. 
129 


AUGUST 

Unspoken  homilies  of  peace 

Her  daily  life  is  preaching; 
The  still  refreshment  of  the  dew 

Is  her  unconscious  teaching. 

Her  presence  lends  its  warmth  and  health 

To  all  who  come  before  it.  . 
If  woman  lost  us  Eden,  such 

As  she  alone  restore  it. 

AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


14 

NOT  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets  saw, 
Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of  war, 
Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming  soft  and  calm 
On  the  sky's  rim,  the  fountain-shading  palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so  long  have  trod, 
The  great  hope  resting  on  the  truth  of  God, — 
Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass  away, 
And  the  tired  world  breathe  free  through  a  long 
Sabbath  day. 

THB  PEACE  CONVENTION. 


15 

Napoleon,  1769 ;  Walter  Scott,  1771 ;  Thomas  De  Quincey,  1785. 

HUMAN  hearts  remain  unchanged:   the  sorrow 

and  the  sin, 

The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our 
own  akin ; 

130 


AUGUST 

And  if,  in  tales  our  fathers   told,  the  songs  our 

mothers  sung, 
Tradition  wears  a  snowy  beard,  Romance  is  always 

young. 

MARY  GARVIN. 


16 


Lavoisier,  1743. 

ON  my  cheek  I  feel  the  western  wind, 
And  hear  it  telling  to  the  orchard  trees, 
And  to  the  faint  and  flower-forsaken  bees, 
Tales    of    fair    meadows,   green    with   constant 
streams, 

And  mountains  rising  blue  and  cool  behind, 
Where  in  moist  dells  the  purple  orchis  gleams, 

And  starred  with  white  the  virgin's  bower  is  twined. 

So  the  o'envearied  pilgrim,  as  he  fares 

Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times  is  fanned, 

Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  sweet  airs 
Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  as  the  dewfall  bland. 

Breath  of  the  blessed  Heaven  for  which  we  pray, 

Blow  from  the  eternal  hills  !  make  glad  our  earthly 
way! 

PICTURES. 


AUGUST 
17 

Fredrika  Bremer,  1801. 

THY  sweet  thoughts  and  northern  fancies 
Meet  and  mingle  with  our  mirth. 

And  o'er  weary  spirits  keeping 

Sorrow's  night-watch,  long  and  chill, 

Shine  they  like  thy  sun  of  summer 
Over  midnight  vale  and  hill. 

To  FREDRIKA  BREMER. 


18 


T.  W.  Parsons,  1819 ;  Emperor  Francis  Joseph,  1830. 

ONE,  with  years  grown  wiser,  said: 
"  So,  always  baffled,  not  misled, 
We  follow  where  before  us  runs 
The  vision  of  the  shining  ones. 

"  Not  where  they  seem  ttoeir  signals  fly, 
Their  voices  while  we  listen  die  ; 
We  cannot  keep,  however  fleet, 
The  quick  time  of  their  winged  feet. 

"  From  youth  to  age  unresting  stray 
These  kindly  mockers  in  our  way ; 
Yet  lead  they  not,  the  baffling  elves, 
To  something  better  than  themselves  ?  " 

THB  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 
132 


AUGUST 
19 

John  Woolman,  1720. 

EARNEST  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 
0  To—. 

\\Vith  a  copy  of  Woolman  s  Journal. ] 


2O 


Robert  Herrick,  1591. 

WITH  warning  hand  I  mark  Time's  rapid  flight 
From  life's  glad  morning  to  its  solemn  night ; 
133 


AUGUST 

Yet,  through  the  dear  God's  love,  I  also  show 
There  's  Light  above  me  by  the  Shade  below. 

INSCRIPTION  ON  A  SUN-DIAL. 


21 
Jules  Michelet,  1798;  John  Tyndall,  1820. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 

Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 
While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the  sun 

Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 
Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 

Upon  the  passing  storm. 

Oh,  beautiful !  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  blended  ;  — 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern  hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  bonded. 

THE  EXILES. 


22 


SOMETIMES  a  cloud,  with  thunder  black, 
Stooped  low  upon  the  darkening  main, 

Piercing  the  waves  along  its  track 
With  the  slant  javelins  of  rain. 
134 


AUGUST 

And  when  west-wind  and  sunshine  warm 
Chased  out  to  sea  its  wrecks  of  storm, 
They  saw  the  prismy  hues  in  thin  spray  showers 
Where  the  green  buds  of  waves  burst  into  white 
froth  flowers. 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


23 

Cuvier,  1769. 

EARTH'S  rocky  tablets  bear  forever 
The  dint  of  rain  and  small  bird's  track : 

Who  knows  but  that  my  idle  verses 
May  leave  some  trace  by  Merrimac ! 

So,  when  this  fluid  age  we  live  in 

Shall  stiffen  round  my  careless  rhyme, 

Who  made  the  vagrant  tracks  may  puzzle 
The  savans  of  the  coming  time  : 

And,  following  out  their  dim  suggestions, 
Some  idly-curious  hand  may  draw 

My  doubtful  portraiture,  as  Cuvier 
Drew  fish  and  bird  from  fin  and  claw. 

THE  FIRST  FLOWERS. 


135 


AUGUST 
24 

William  Wilberforce,   1759. 

THE  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 

By  every  wind  and  every  tide ; 
The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 

Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has  wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love ;  your  battle-ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

To  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 


25 

C.  K.  J.  von  Bunsen,  1791 ;  Bret  Harte,  1839. 

AND  when  along  the  line  of  shore 

The  mists  crept  upward  chill  and  damp, 
Stretched,  careless,  on  their  sandy  floor 

Beneath  the  flaring  lantern  lamp, 
They  talked  of  all  things  old  and  new, 

Read,  slept,  and  dreamed  as  idlers  do ; 
And  in  the  unquestioned  freedom  of  the  tent, 
Body  and  o'er-taxed  mind  to  healthful  ease  unbent. 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


AUGUST 
26 

Sir  Robert  Walpole,  1676;  Prince  Albert.  1819. 

WE  search  the  world  for  truth ;  we  cull 
The  good,  the  pure,  the  beautiful, 
From  graven  stone  and  written  scroll, 
From  all  old  flower-fields  of  the  soul ; 
And,  weary  seekers  of  the  best, 
We  come  back  laden  from  our  quest, 
To  find  that  all  the  sages  said 
Is  in  the  Book  our  mothers  read. 

MIRIAM. 


27 
Hegel,  1770. 

AH  me  !  we  doubt  the  shining  skies, 

Seen  through  our  shadows  of  offence, 
And  drown  with  our  poor  childish  cries 
The  cradle-hymn  of  kindly  Providence. 

And  still  we  love  the  evil  cause, 

And  of  the  just  effect  complain : 
We  tread  upon  life's  broken  laws, 
And  murmur  at  our  self-inflicted  pain. 

THE  SHADOW  AND  THB  LIGHT. 


137 


AlTGUST 

28 

John  Locke,  1632;  Goethe,  1749;  Tolstoi,  1828. 

THE  soul  itself  its  awful  witness  is. 

Say  not  in  evil  doing,  "  No  one  sees," 

And  so  offend  the  conscious  One  within, 

Whose  ear  can  hear  the  silences  of  sin 

Ere  they  find  voice,  whose  eyes  unsleeping  see 

The  secret  motions  of  iniquity. 

Nor  in  thy  folly  say,  "  I  am  alone." 
For,  seated  in  thy  heart,  as  on  a  throne, 
The  ancient  Judge  and  Witness  liveth  still, 
To  note  thy  act  and  thought ;  and  as  thy  ill 
Or  good  goes  from  thee,  far  beyond  thy  reach, 
The  solemn  Doomsman's  seal  is  set  on  each. 

THE  INWARD  JUDGE. 


29 

F.  D.  Maurice,  1805 ;  O.  W.  Holmes,  1809. 

His  still  the  keen  analysis 
Of  men  and  moods,  electric  wit, 

Free  play  of  mirth  and  tenderness 
To  heal  the  slightest  wound  from  it. 

And  his  the  pathos  touching  all 
Life's  sins  and  sorrows  and  regrets, 

Its  hopes  and  fears,  its  final  call 
And  rest  beneath  the  violets. 
138 


AUGUST 

His  sparkling  surface  scarce  betrays 
The  thoughtful  tide  beneath  it  rolled, 

The  wisdom  of  the  latter  days, 
And  tender  memories  of  the  old. 

OUR  AUTOCRAT  (1879). 


30 

CLIMBING  a  path  which  leads  back  never  more 
We  heard  behind  his  footsteps  and  his  cheer ; 
Now,  face  to  face,  we  greet  him  standing  here 

Upon  the  lonely  summit  of  Fourscore  ! 

Welcome  to  us,  o'er  whom  the  lengthened  day 
Is  closing  and  the  shadows  colder  grow, 
His  genial  presence,  like  an  afterglow, 

Following  the  one  just  vanishing  away. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  table  shall  be  set 
For  the  last  breakfast  of  the  Autocrat, 
And  love  repeat  with  smiles  and  tears  thereat 

His  own  sweet  songs  that  time  shall  not  forget. 

Waiting  with  us  the  call  to  come  up  higher, 

Life  is  not  less,  the  heavens  are  only  nigher ! 

O.  W.  HOLMES  ON  HIS  EIGHTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 


31 

John  Bunyan  died,  1688. 

THE  broad  and  pleasant  "  river  of  the  Water  of 

Life  "  glided  peacefully  before  him,   fringed  "  on 

either  side  with  green  trees,  with  all  manner  of 

fruit,''  and  leaves  of  healing,  with  "  meadows  beau- 

139 


AUGUST 

tified  with  lilies,  and  green  all  the  year  long;"  he 
saw  the  Delectable  Mountains,  glorious  with  sun- 
shine, overhung  with  gardens  and  orchards  and 
vineyards ;  and  beyond  all,  the  Land  of  Beulah, 
with  its  eternal  sunshine,  its  song  of  birds,  its  music 
of  fountains,  its  purple  clustered  vines,  and  groves 
through  which  walked  the  Shining  Ones,  silver- 
winged  and  beautiful. 

WHAT  were  bars  and  bolts  and  prison  walls  to 
him,  whose  eyes  were  anointed  to  see,  and  whose 
ears  opened  to  hear,  the  glory  and  the  rejoicing  of 
the  City  of  God,  when  the  pilgrims  were  conducted 
to  its  golden  gates,  from  the  black  and  bitter  river, 
with  the  sounding  trumpeters,  the  transfigured  harp- 
ers with  their  crowns  of  gold,  the  sweet  voices  of 
angels,  the  welcoming  peal  of  bells  in  the  holy  city, 
and  the  songs  of  the  redeemed  ones  ? 

JOHN  BUNYAN. 
140 


SUNSET  ON  THE   BEARCAMP 

A  GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 

Of  hills  the  river  runs 
As  down  its  long  green  valley  falls 

The  last  of  summer's  suns. 
Along  its  tawny  gravel-bed 

Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 
As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 

The  hurry  of  the  hill, 
Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green 

From  curve  to  curve  it  slips ; 
The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 

Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 

Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name, 

A  glory  never  sung, 
Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain  wall 

Are  God's  great  pictures  hung. 
How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old  ! 

No  longer  granite-browed, 
They  melt  in  rosy  mist ;  the  rock 

Is  softer  than  the  cloud  ; 
The  valley  holds  its  breath  ;  no  leaf 

Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled : 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Seems  falling  on  the  world. 
141 


SEPTEMBER 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky, 

The  golden  water  pales, 
And  over  all  the  valley-land 

A  gray-winged  vapor  sails. 
I  go  the  common  way  of  all ; 

The  sunset  fires  will  burn, 
The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I  no  more  return. 
No  whisper  from  the  mountain  pine 

Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where  I  tread, 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well. 

But  beauty  seen  is  never  lost, 

God's  colors  all  are  fast ; 
The  glory  of  this  sunset  heaven 

Into  my  soul  has  passed, — 
A  sense  of  gladness  unconfined 

To  mortal  date  or  clime  ; 
As  the  soul  liveth,  it  shall  live 

Beyond  the  years  of  time. 
Beside  the  mystic  asphodels 

Shall  bloom  the  home-born  flowers, 
And  new  horizons  flush  and  glow 

With  sunset  hues  of  ours. 
142 


SEPTEMBER 

i 

L.  H.  Sigourney,  1791. 

SEPTEMBER  sunsets,  changing  forests,  moonrise 
and  cloud,  sun  and  rain,  —  I  for  one  am  contented 
with  them.  They  fill  my  heart  with  a  sense  of 

beauty. 

THE  WORLD'S  END. 


SHE  sang  alone,  ere  womanhood  had  known 
The  gift  of  song  which  fills  the  air  to-day : 
Tender  and  sweet,  a  music  all  her  own 
May  fitly  linger  where  she  knelt  to  pray. 
LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 
{Inscription  in  Christ  Church^  Hartford.} 


John  Howard,  1726. 

FRINGING  the  stream,  at  every  turn 
Swung  low  the  waving  fronds  of  fern ; 
From  stony  cleft  and  mossy  sod 
Pale  asters  sprang,  and  goldenrod. 

And  still  the  waters  sang  the  sweet, 
Glad  song  that  stirred  its  gliding  feet, 
And  found  in  rock  and  root  the  keys 
Of  its  beguiling  melodies. 

THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 
143 


SEPTEMBER 


Mary  Whittier  Caldwell,  1806. 

THERE,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 

Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside ; 

A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 

Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 

Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 

And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 

Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 

The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 

O  heart  sore-tried  !  thou  hast  the  best 

That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee,  —  rest. 

SNOW-BOUND. 


Phoebe  Gary,  1824. 

YEARS  since  (but  names  to  me  before), 
Two  sisters  sought  at  eve  my  door  ; 
Two  song-birds  wandering  from  their  nest, 
A  gray  old  farmhouse  in  the  West. 

How  fresh  of  life  the  younger  one, 
Half  smiles,  half  tears,  like  rain  in  sun.! 
Her  gravest  mood  could  scarce  displace 
The  dimples  of  her  nut-brown  face. 

Wit  sparkled  on  her  lips  not  less 
For  quick  and  tremulous  tenderness  ; 
144 


SEPTEMBER 

And,  following  close  her  merriest  glance, 
Dreamed  through  her  eyes  the  heart's  romance. 

THE  SINGER. 


5 

Meyerbeer,  1791 ;  Archbishop  Trench,  1807. 

FOR  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the  hills 
And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining, 

And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 
And  all  the  brooks  complaining. 

At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valleys  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky, 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness ; 

And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 
Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

'45 


SEPTEMBER 
6 

Lafayette,  1757. 

IF  the  stream  had  no  quiet  eddying  place,  could 
we  so  admire  its  cascade  over  the  rocks  ?  Were 
there  no  clouds,  could  we  so  hail  the  sky  shining 
through  them  in  its  still  calm  purity  ? 

THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


7 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  died,  1892. 

WHEN  on  my  day  of  life  the  night  is  falling, 
And,  in  the  winds  from  unsunned  spaces  blown, 

I  hear  far  voices  out  of  darkness  calling 
My  feet  to  paths  unknown, 

Thou  who  hast  made  my  home  of  life  so  pleasant, 
Leave  not  its  tenant  when  its  walls  decay ; 

O  Love  Divine,  O  Helper  ever  present, 
Be  Thou  my  strength  and  stay ! 

Be  near  me  when  all  else  is  from  me  drifting ; 

Earth,  sky,  home's  pictures,  days  of  shade  and 

shine, 
And  kindly  faces  to  my  own  uplifting 

The  love  which  answers  mine. 

AT  LAST. 
146 


SEPTEMBER 


Ariosto,  1474  ;  A.  W.  Schlegel,  1767. 

I  HAVE  but  Thee,  my  Father !  let  Thy  spirit 
Be  with  me  then  to  comfort  and  uphold  ; 

No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm  I  merit, 
Nor  street  of  shining  gold. 

Suffice  it  if  —  my  good  and  ill  unreckoned, 

And    both    forgiven    through     Thy    abounding 
grace  — 

I  find  myself  by  hands  familiar  beckoned 
Unto  my  fitting  place. 

Some  humble  door  among  Thy  many  mansions, 
Some   sheltering  shade  where   sin  and  striving 

cease, 

And  flows  forever  through  heaven's  green  expan- 
sions 
The  river  of  Thy  peace. 

AT  LAST. 


9 

Thomas  Hutchinson,  1711 ;  J.  H.  Shorthouse,  1834. 

I  PRAY  the  prayer  of  Plato  old : 
God  make  thee  beautiful  within, 

And  let  thine  eyes  the  good  behold 
In  everything  save  sin. 
147 


SEPTEMBER 

Imagination  held  in  check 

To  serve,  not  rule,  thy  poised  mind; 
Thy  Reason,  at  the  frown  or  beck 

Of  Conscience,  loose  or  bind. 

My  NAMESAKE. 


10 


Mungo  Park,  1771 ;  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton,  1834. 

NOT  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and  power 

He  speaks  to  man; 

The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder-shower 
His  rainbows  span  ; 
And  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er  the  desert,  leaving,  as  in  air 
The  crane-flock  leaves,  no  trace  of  passage  there, 

He  gives  the  weary  eye 
The  palm-leaf  shadow  for  the  hot  noon  hours, 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers. 

To  Avis  KEENE. 


II 

James  Thomson,  1700. 

NOTHING  before,  nothing  behind  ; 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 

The  rock  beneath. 
148 


SEPTEMBER 

The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 

For  thy  sure  possessing; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 

Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


12 


Charles  Dudley  Warner,  1829. 

FROM  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers  ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff, 

And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 
Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff, 

See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 
Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines. 

THE  VANISHERS. 


13 

James  Shirley,  1596. 

HERE,  though  unreached  the  goal  we  sought, 
Its  own  reward  our  toil  has  brought: 
149 


SEPTEMBER 

The  winding  water's  sounding  rush, 
The  long  note  of  the  hermit  thrush, 

The  turquoise  lakes,  the  glimpse  of  pond 
And  river  track,  and,  vast,  beyond 
Broad  meadows  belted  round  with  pines, 
The  grand  uplift  of  mountain  lines  ! 

So  failure  wins ;  the  consequence 
Of  loss  becomes  its  recompense ; 
And  evermore  the  end  shall  tell 
The  unreached  ideal  guided  well. 

THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL. 


14 
John  Harvard  died,  1638 ;  Alexander  von  Humboldt,  1769. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven,  — 

How  through  each  pass  and  hollow  streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven,  — 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 

From  far  celestial  fountains,  — 
The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 

AMONG  THE  HILLS. 


SEPTEMBER 
15 

James  Fenimore  Cooper,  1789;  J.  G.  Pertival,  1795. 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 

And,  turning  from  familiar  sight  and  sound, 
Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 

A  glance  upon  Tradition's  shadowy  ground, 
Led  by  the  few  pale  lights  which,  glimmering  round 
That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem  dying  fast ; 
And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the  eye, 
The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 
Let  Fancy  with  her  dream-dipped  brush  supply. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

16 

Samuel  Adams,  1722;  Francis  Parkman,  1823. 

O  PAINTER  of  the  fruits  and  flowers, 

We  own  Thy  wise  design, 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

May  share  the  work  of  Thine  ! 

Apart  from  Thee  we  plant  in  vain 

The  root  and  sow  the  seed ; 
Thy  early  and  Thy  later  rain, 

Thy  sun  and  dew  we  need. 

Our  toil  is  sweet  with  thankfulness, 

Our  burden  is  our  boon ; 
The  curse  of  Earth's  gray  morning  is 

The  blessing  of  its  noon. 

GARDEN. 


SEPTEMBER 
17 

Samuel  Hopkins,  1721. 

HONOR  to  the  true  man  ever,  who  takes  his  life 
in  his  hands,  and,  at  all  hazards,  speaks  the  word 
which  is  given  him  to  utter,  whether  men  will  hear 
or  forbear,  whether  the  end  thereof  is  to  be  praise 
or  censure,  gratitude  or  hatred.  It  well  may  be 
doubted  whether  on  that  Sabbath  day  the  angels  of 
God,  in  their  wide  survey  of  His  universe,  looked 
upon  a  nobler  spectacle  than  that  of  the  minister 
of  Newport,  rising  up  before  his  slave-holding  con- 
gregation, and  demanding,  in  the  name  of  the  High- 
est, the  "  deliverance  of  the  captive,  and  the  open- 
ing of  prison  doors  to  them  that  were  bound." 

SAMUEL  HOPKINS. 


18 

Samuel  Johnson,  1709;  Joseph  Story,  1779. 

FAREWELL  !  these  smiling  hills  must  wear 

Too  soon  their  wintry  frown, 
And  snow-cold  winds  from  off  them  shake 

The  maple's  red  leaves  down. 
But  I  shall  see  a  summer  sun 

Still  setting  broad  and  low ; 
The  mountain  slopes  shall  blush  and  bloom, 

The  golden  water  flow. 
A  lover's  claim  is  mine  on  all 

I  see  to  have  and  hold,  — 
152 


SEPTEMBER 

The  rose-light  of  perpetual  hills, 
And  sunsets  never  cold  ! 

SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP. 


19 

Hartley  Coleridge,  1796. 

HAS  life's  infancy  only  been  provided  for,  and 
beyond  this  poor  nursery-chamber  of  Time  is  there 
no  play-ground  for  the  soul's  youth,  no  broad  fields 
for  its  manhood  ? 

SCOTTISH  REFORMERS. 


2O 

THE  river  wound  as  it  should  wind ; 

Their  place  the  mountains  took ; 
The  white  torn  fringes  of  their  clouds 

Wore  no  unwonted  look. 

Yet  ne'er  before  that  river's  rim 
Was  pressed  by  feet  of  mine, 

Never  before  mine  eyes  had  crossed 
That  broken  mountain  line. 

A  presence,  strange  at  once  and  known, 
Walked  with  me  as  my  guide ; 

The  skirts  of  some  forgotten  life 
Trailed  noiseless  at  my  side. 
153 


SEPTEMBER 

Was  it  a  dim-remembered  dream  ? 

Or  glimpse  through  aeons  old  ? 
The  secret  which  the  mountains  kept 

The  river  never  told. 

A  MYSTERY. 

"    21 

St.  Matthew;  Savonarola,  1452. 

SUFFICE  it  now.  —  In  time  to  be 
Shall  holier  altars  rise  to  Thee,  — 
Thy  Church  our  broad  humanity  ! 

White  flowers  of  love  its  walls  shall  climb, 
Soft  bells  of  peace  shall  ring  its  chime, 
Its  days  shall  all  be  holy  time. 

A  sweeter  song  shall  then  be  heard,  — 
The  music*  of  the  world's  accord 
Confessing  Christ,  the  Inward  Word  ! 

That  song  shall  swell  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  hope,  one  faith,  one  love,  restore 
The  seamless  robe  that  Jesus  wore. 

HYMN. 

22 
Michael  Faraday,  1791 ;  Dr.  John  Brown,  1810. 

WE  need  love's  tender  lessons  taught 

As  only  weakness  can  ; 
God  hath  His  small  interpreters  ; 

The  child  must  teach  the  man. 
154 


SEPTEMBER 

We  wander  wide  through  evil  years, 

Our  eyes  of  faith  grow  dim  ; 
But  he  is  freshest  from  His  hands 

And  nearest  unto  Him  ! 

CHILD- SONGS. 


23 
Jane  Taylor,  1783 ;  Karl  Theodor  Korner,  1791. 

MORE  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 

In  the  gold  of  setting  day  ; 
More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 

Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 

Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  flown, 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth, 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  bloWn,  — 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 
Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste, 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp, 
Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste. 

THE  VANISHERS. 

24 
John  Marshall,  1755. 

HOPE  not  the  cure  of  sin  till  Self  is  dead  ; 
Forget  it  in  love's  service,  and  the  debt 
Thou  canst  not  pay  the  angels  shall  forget ; 
155 


SEPTEMBER 

Heaven's  gate  is  shut  to  him  who  comes  alone; 
Save  thou  a  soul,  and  it  shall  save  thy  own  ! 

THE  Two  RABBINS. 


25 
Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans,  1794. 

WHEN  did  Age  transfer  to  Youth 
The  hard-gained  lessons  of  its  day? 
Each  lip  must  learn  the  taste  of  truth, 
Each  foot  must  feel  its  way. 

We  cannot  hold  the  hands  of  choice 
That  touch  or  shun  life's  fateful  keys  ; 

The  whisper  of  the  inward  voice 
Is  more  than  homilies. 

A  NAME. 


26 

Lord  Collingwood,  1750. 

LET  winds  that  blow  from  heaven  refresh, 

Dear  Lord,  the  languid  air  ; 
And  let  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 

Thy  strength  of  spirit  share. 

And,  if  the  eye  must  fail  of  light, 

The  ear  forget  to  hear, 
Make  clearer  still  the  spirit's  sight, 

More  fine  the  inward  ear  ! 
156 


SEPTEMBER 

Be  near  me  in  mine  hours  of  need 

To  soothe,  or  cheer,  or  warn, 
And  down  these  slopes  of  sunset  lead 

As  up  the  hills  of  morn  ! 

MY  BIRTHDAY. 


27 

Bossuet,  1627. 

IT  becomes  all  to  hope  and  labor  for  the  coming 
of  that  day  when  the  hymns  of  Cowper  and  the 
Confessions  of  Augustine,  the  humane  philosophy 
of  Channing  and  the  devout  meditations  of  Thomas 
a  Kempis,  the  simple  essays  of  Woolman  and  the 
glowing  periods  of  Bossuet,  shall  be  regarded  as 
the  offspring  of  one  spirit  and  one  faith,  —  lights 
of  a  common  altar,  and  precious  stones  in  the 

temple  of  the  one  universal  Church. 

POPE  NIGHT. 


28 

Francis  Turner  Palgrave,  1824. 

FOR  there  was  freedom  in  that  wakening  time 
Of  tender  souls ;  to  differ  was  not  crime  ; 
The  varying  bells  made  up  the  perfect  chime. 

On  lips  unlike  was  laid  the  altar's  coal, 

The  white,  clear  light,  tradition-colored,  stole 

Through  the  stained  oriel  of  each  human  soul. 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 
157 


SEPTEMBER 
29 

Michaelmas ;  William,  Lord  Russell,  1639 ;  Lady  Russell 
died,  1723. 

I  FAIN  would  thank  Thee  that  my  mortal  life 

Has  reached  the  hour  (albeit  through  care  and 

pain) 
When  Good  and  Evil,  as  for  final  strife, 

Close  dim  and  vast  on  Armageddon's  plain  ; 
And  Michael  and  his  angels  once  again 

Drive  howling  back  the  Spirits  of  the  Night. 
Oh  for  the  faith  to  read  the  signs  aright 
And,  from  the  angle  of  Thy  perfect  sight, 

See  Truth's  white  banner  floating  on  before ; 

And  the  Good  Cause,  despite  of  venal  friends, 

And  base  expedients,  move  to  noble  ends; 

See  Peace  with  Freedom  make  to  Time  amends, 
And,  through  its  cloud  of  dust,  the  threshing-floor, 

Flailed   by  the  thunder,   heaped   with  chaffless 

grain ! 
1856.  WHAT  OF  THE  DAY  ? 


30 

FOR  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice  ; 
158 


SEPTEMBER 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God ! 

The  shadow  rend, 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
O  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms ; 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms  ! 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION. 
159 


FOR   AN    AUTUMN    FESTIVAL 

ONCE  more  the  liberal  year  laughs  out 
O'er  richer  stores  than  gems  or  gold  ; 

Once  more  with  harvest-song  and  shout 
Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told. 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 

Like  Ruth,  among  her  garnered  sheaves ; 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 

Her  brow  is  bright  with  autumn  leaves. 

Oh,  favors  every  year  made  new ! 

Oh,  gifts  with  rain  and  sunshine  sent ! 
The  bounty  overruns  our  due, 

The  fulness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  the  flowers  bloom  on ; 

We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears  fill, 
We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the  sun 

That  casts  it  shines  behind  us  still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 
The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 

And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil 
Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 
1 60 


OCTOBER 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day  ? 

Who  scorns  his  native  fruit  and  bloom  ? 
Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 

Beside  the  bounteous  board  of  home  ? 

Thank  Heaven,  instead,  that  Freedom's  arm 
Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold,  — 

That  brave  and  generous  lives  can  warm 
A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And  let  these  altars,  wreathed  with  flowers 
And  piled  with  fruits,  awake  again 

Thanksgivings  for  the  golden  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ! 
161 


OCTOBER 


Rufus  Choate,  1799. 

THE  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 

Among  the  ripening  corn, 
Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 

Blow  through  the  autumn  morn ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given;  — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of  praise, 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Mv  PSALM. 


2 

W.  E.  Channing  died,  1842. 

NOT  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 
Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 

God's  great  and  crowning  miracle,  — 
The  hero  and  the  saint ! 

For  even  in  a  faithless  day 

Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern ; 

And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way, 
Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 
162 


OCTOBER 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 

And  shut  from  him  her  saintly  prize, 
Whom,  in  the  world's  great  calendar, 

All  men  shall  canonize. 

CHANNING. 


3 

George  Bancroft,  1800  ;  George  Ripley,  1802. 

ALL  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  f adeth  never : 
The  hand  which  upholds  it  now  sustaineth 

The  soul  forever. 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  before  thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inner  glory 

Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  autumn's  dawn 

Uprolling  thin, 
Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  drawn 

Let  sunlight  in. 

MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


4 

Guizot,  1787 ;  J.  F.  Millet,  1814. 

BEAUTIFUL  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 
Melts  on  its  sunset  hills  ;  and,  far  away, 
163 


OCTOBER 

For  me  the  Ocean  lifts  its  solemn  psalm, 
To  me  the  pine-woods  whisper ;  and  for  me 
Yon  river,  winding  through  its  vales  of  calm, 
By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  purple-starred, 
And  gentian  bloom  and  golden-rod  made  gay, 
Flows  down  in  silent  gladness  to  the  sea, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward ! 

THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES. 


Jonathan  Edwards,  1703. 

IN  the  church  of  the  wilderness  Edwards  wrought, 

Shaping  his  creed  at  the  forge  of  thought ; 

And  with  Thor's  own  hammer  welded  and  bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 

Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty  span 

The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate  of  man  ! 

Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 

To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,  and  sin-sick  found, 

The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's  art 

Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his  fervent  heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 

Of  his  deep  and  dark  Northampton  woods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall  ? 

Not  the  blinding  splendor  which  fell  on  Saul, 

But  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests  on  them 

Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Where  never  the  sun  nor  moon  are  known, 

But  the  Lord  and  His  love  are  the  light  alone ! 

THE  PREACHER. 
164 


OCTOBER 
6 

Jenny  Lind,  1821. 

WHO  hates,  hates  Thee,  who  loves  becomes 

Therein  to  Thee  allied  ; 
All  sweet  accords  of  hearts  and  homes 

In  Thee  are  multiplied. 

Deep  strike  Thy  roots,  O  heavenly  Vine, 

Within  our  earthly  sod, 
Most  human  and  yet  most  divine, 

The  flower  of  man  and  God  ! 

OUR  MASTER. 


Robert  Dinsmore,  1757. 

A  GENIAL,  jovial,  large-hearted  old  man,  simple 
as  a  child,  and  betraying,  neither  in  look  nor  man- 
ner, that  he  was  accustomed  to 

"  Feed  on  thoughts  which  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers.'1 

Peace  to  him !  ...  In  the  ancient  burial-ground 
of  Windham,  by  the  side  of  his  "  beloved  Molly," 
and  in  view  of  the  old  meeting-house,  there  is  a 
mound  of  earth,  where,  every  spring,  green  grasses 
tremble  in  the  wind,  and  the  warm  sunshine  calls 
out  the  flowers.  There,  gathered  like  one  of  his 
own  ripe  sheaves,  the  farmer  poet  sleeps  with  his 
fathers. 

ROBERT  DINSMORE. 

I6S 


OCTOBER 
8 

E.  C.  Stedman,  1833  ;  John  Hay,  1839. 

POET  and  friend  of  poets,  if  thy  glass 
Detects  no  flower  in  winter's  tuft  of  grass, 
Let  this  slight  token  of  the  debt  I  owe 

Outlive  for  thee  December's  frozen  day, 
And,  like  the  arbutus  budding  under  snow, 
Take  bloom  and  fragrance  from  some  morn  of 

May 

When  he  who  gives  it  shall  have  gone  the  way 
Where  faith  shall  see  and  reverent  trust  shall 

know. 

To  E.  C.  S. 
[Dedication  to  At  Sundown.'} 


9 

Cervantes,  1549;  Giuseppe  Verdi,  1813. 

WE  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June 
Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 

And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 
Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
1 66 


OCTOBER 

We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 
And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

THE  CORN-SONG. 


10 

Benjamin  West,  1738;  Hugh  Miller,  1802. 

AUTUMN'S  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

THE  FOUNTAIN. 


II 


NOWHERE  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit  bearer 

Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay ; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"  Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth  stay." 

THE  RANGER. 
I67 


OCTOBER 
12 

ON  all  his  sad  or  restless  moods 
The  patient  peace  of  Nature  stole ; 

The  quiet  of  the  fields  and  woods 
Sank  deep  into  his  soul. 

He  worshipped  as  his  fathers  did, 
And  kept  the  faith  of  childish  days, 

And,  howsoe'er  he  strayed  or  slid, 
He  loved  the  good  old  ways. 

The  simple  tastes,  the  kindly  traits, 
The  tranquil  air,  and  gentle  speech, 

The  silence  of  the  soul  that  waits 
For  more  than  man  to  teach. 

MY  NAMESAKE. 


13 

Elizabeth  Fry  died,  1845. 

THE  Gospel  of  a  life  like  hers 

Is  more  than  books  or  scrolls. 
From  scheme  and  creed  the  light  goes  out, 

The  saintly  fact  survives ; 
The  blessed  Master  none  can  doubt 

Revealed  in  holy  lives. 

THE  FRIEND'S  BURIAL. 

168 


.      OCTOBER 
14 

William  Penn,  1644. 

GATHERED  from  many  sects,  the  Quaker  brought 

His  old  beliefs,  adjusting  to  the  thought 

That  moved  his  soul  the  creed  his  fathers  taught : 

One  faith  alone,  so  broad  that  all  mankind 
Within  themselves  its  secret  witness  find, 
The  soul's  communion  with  the  Eternal  mind. 

The  Spirit's  law,  the  Inward  Rule  and  Guide, 
Scholar  and  peasant,  lord  and  serf,  allied, 
The  polished  Penn  and  Cromwell's  Ironside. 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 

15 

Allan  Ramsay,  1686;  Wilhelm  von  Kaulbach,  1805. 

THE  summer  grains  were  harvested ;  the  stubble- 
fields  lay  dry, 

Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the 
pale  green  waves  of  rye  ; 

But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed 
with  wood, 

Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn 
crop  stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks 

that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the 

yellow  ear ; 

169 


OCTOBER 

Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  ver- 
dant fold, 

And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's 
sphere  of  gold. 

THE  HCSKERS. 


16 

Noah  Webster,  1758;  Robert  Stephenson,  1803. 

OH,  fruit  loved  of  boyhood !  the  old  days  recalling, 
When  wood-grapes  were  purpling  and  brown  nuts 

were  falling ! 

When  wild,  ugly  faces  we  carved  in  its  skin, 
Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a  candle  within ! 
When  we  laughed  round  the  corn-heap,  with  hearts 

all  in  tune, 
Our  chair   a   broad   pumpkin,  —  our    lantern    the 

moon, 

Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled  like  steam, 
In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for  her 

team! 

THE  PUMPKIN. 


17 

Sir  John  Bowring,  1792. 

WITH  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 
Where,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  affliction, 

The  soul  sits  dumb ! 
170 


OCTOBER 

Yet,  would  I  say  what  thy  own  heart  approveth : 

Our  Father's  will, 
Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom  He  loveth, 

Is  mercy  still. 

God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose  not  wholly 

What  He  hath  given  ; 
They  live  on  earth,  in  thought  and  deed,  as  truly 

As  in  His  heaven. 

To  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  His  SISTER. 


18 

St.  Luke;  Henry  Taylor,  1800. 

FOR  lo  !  in  human  hearts  unseen 

The  Healer  dwelleth  still, 
And  they  who  make  His  temples  clean 

The  best  subserve  His  will. 

The  holiest  task  by  Heaven  decreed, 

An  errand  all  divine, 
The  burden  of  our  common  need 

To  render  less  is  thine. 

THE  HEALER. 

19 

John  Adams,  1735  ;  Leigh  Hunt,  1784. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest-time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 
171 


OCTOBER 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns,  — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight  streams, 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And  the  loose  hay-mow's  scented  locks,  — 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

MABEL  MARTIN. 


20 


Sir  Christopher  Wren,  1632  ;  Thomas  Hughes,  1823. 

As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall  search 
The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak  perch, 
When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  and  shorn, 
And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  standing  corn  ; 
As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 
Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting  hold, 
And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 
And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set ;  — 
So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet  corn  !  — 
By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of  frost, 
Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's  sight, 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light ! 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL. 
172 


OCTOBER 

21 

S.  T.  Coleridge,  1772;  Alphonse  de  Lamartine,  1790. 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal 
rain 

Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with 
grass  again ; 

The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the 
woodlands  gay 

With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow- 
flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun 

rose  broad  and  red, 
At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he 

sped ; 
Yet,   even  his   noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and 

subdued, 
On   the  cornfields   and  the  orchards,   and   softly 

pictured  wood. 

THE  HUSKERS. 


22 

Franz  Liszt,  1811. 

AND  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the 

night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow 

light ; 

173 


OCTOBER 

Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified 

the  hill ; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter, 

greener  still. 

From  spire  and  barn  looked  westerly  the  patient 
weathercocks ; 

But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless 
as  rocks. 

No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squirrel's 
dropping  shell, 

And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rus- 
tling as  they  fell. 

THE  HUSKERS. 


23 
Francis  Jeffrey,  1773. 

WITH  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 

A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly, 
Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and  fells, 

Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky, 
Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 
Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun; 
While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  hardy  jay 
Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid  them  stay. 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 
174 


OCTOBER 

24 

Daniel  Webster  died,  1852. 

AH,  cruel  fate,  that  closed  to  thee, 
O  sleeper  by  the  Northern  sea, 
The  gates  of  opportunity  ! 
God  fills  the  gaps  of  human  need, 
Each  crisis  brings  its  word  and  deed. 
Wise  men  and  strong  we  did  not  lack ; 
But  still,  with  memory  turning  back, 
In  the  dark  hours  we  thought  of  thee, 
And  thy  lone  grave  beside  the  sea. 

But,  where  thy  native  mountains  bare 
Their  foreheads  to  diviner  air, 
Fit  emblem  of  enduring  fame, 
One  lofty  summit  keeps  thy  name. 
And  evermore  that  mountain  mass 
Seems  climbing  from  the  shadowy  pass 
To  light,  as  if  to  manifest 
Thy  nobler  self,  thy  life  at  best ! 

THE  LOST  OCCASION. 


25 
Lord  Macaulay,  1800. 

HE  who  lies  where  the  minster's  groined  arches 
curve  down 

To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of  England's  re- 
nown, 

175 


OCTOBER 

The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  enthroned, 
Whose  pen  as  a  sceptre  the  Muses  all  owned,  — 

How  vainly  he  labored  to  sully  with  blame 

The   white   bust  of    Penn,   in  the   niche  of    his 

fame !  .  .  . 
For  the  sake  of  his  gifts,  and  the  works  that  outlive 

him, 
And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we  freely  forgive 

him! 

THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI.  , 


26 


Count  von  Moltke,  1800. 

SEARCH  thine  own  heart.     What  paineth  thee 
In  others  in  thyself  may  be  ; 
All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak ; 
Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek ! 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


27 

THE  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew ; 
And  good  thoughts  where  her  footsteps  pressed 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look ; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book  : 
176 


OCTOBER 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm, 
A  canticle  of  love. 

GONE. 


28 

Erasmus,  1467. 

FRINGED  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls ; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

Doubt  who  may,  O  friend  of  mine! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue.  .  .  . 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below, 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more, 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 

THE  VANISHERS. 


29 

John  Keats,  1795. 

GOD'S  angels  come  not  as  of  old 
The  Syrian  shepherds  knew  them  ; 

In  reddening  dawns,  in  sunset  gold, 
And  warm  noon  lights  I  view  them. 
177 


OCTOBER 

Nor  need  there  is,  in  times  like  this 
When  heaven  to  earth  draws  nearer, 

Of  wing  or  song  as  witnesses 
To  make  their  presence  clearer. 

O  stream  of  life,  whose  swifter  flow 

Is  of  the  end  forewarning, 
Methinks  thy  sundown  afterglow 

Seems  less  of  night  than  morning  ! 

ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 


30 

ENOUGH  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have  marked  my  erring  track ;  — 

That  whereso'er  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back;  — 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good ;  — 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 

Which  opens  into  light, 
Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 

Beyond  the  Father's  sight. 

MY  PSALM. 

I78 


OCTOBER 
31 

All  Hallows  Eve ;  John  Evelyn,  1620. 

IF  it  be  true  that,  according  to  Cornelius  Agrippa, 
"  a  wood  fire  doth  drive  away  dark  spirits,"  it  is, 
nevertheless,  also  true  that  around  it  the  simple 
superstitions  of  our  ancestors  still  love  to  linger; 
and  there  the  half-sportful,  half-serious  charms  of 
which  I  have  spoken  are  oftenest  resorted  to. 

Within  the  circle  of  the  light  of  the  open  fire 
safely  might  the  young  conjurers  question  destiny; 
for  none  but  kindly  and  gentle  messengers  from 
Wonderland  could  venture  among  them.  And  who 
of  us,  looking  back  to  those  long  autumnal  even- 
ings of  childhood  when  the  glow  of  the  kitchen-fire 
rested  on  the  beloved  faces  of  home,  does  not  feel 
that  there  is  truth  and  beauty  in  what  the  quaint 
old  author  just  quoted  affirms  ?  "  As  the  spirits  of 
darkness  grow  stronger  in  the  dark,  so  good  spirits, 
which  are  angels  of  light,  are  multiplied  and  strength- 
ened, not  only  by  the  divine  light  of  the  sun  and 
stars,  but  also  by  the  light  of  our  common  wood- 
fires." 

CHARMS  AND  FAIRY  FAITH. 
179 


A   DAY 

TALK  not  of  sad  November,  when  a  day 
Of  warm,  glad  sunshine  fills  the  sky  of  noon, 
And  a  wind,  borrowed  from  some  morn  of  June, 

Stirs  the  brown  grasses  and  the  leafless  spray. 

On  the  unfrosted  pool  the  pillared  pines 

Lay  their  long  shafts  of  shadow :  the  small  rill, 
Singing  a  pleasant  song  of  summer  still, 

A  line  of  silver,  down  the  hill-slope  shines. 

Hushed  the  bird-voices  and  the  hum  of  bees, 
In  the  thin  grass  the  crickets  pipe  no  more  ; 
But  still  the  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store, 

And  drops  his  nutshells  from  the  shag-bark  trees. 

Softly  the  dark  green  hemlocks  whisper  :  high 
Above,  the  spires  of  yellowing  larches  show, 
Where  the  woodpecker  and  home-loving  crow 

And  jay  and  nut-hatch  winter's  threat  defy. 

O  gracious  beauty,  ever  new  and  old ! 

O  sights  and  sounds  of  nature,  doubly  dear 
When  the  low  sunshine  warns  the  closing  year 

Of  snow-blown  fields  and  waves  of  Arctic  cold ! 
1 80 


NOVEMBER 

Close  to  my  heart  I  fold  each  lovely  thing 
The  sweet  day  yields ;  and,  not  disconsolate, 
With  the  calm  patience  of  the  woods  I  wait 

For  leaf  and  blossom  when  God  gives  us  Spring ! 

181 


NOVEMBER 


All  Saints;  Antonio  Canova,  1757. 

WHERE  now  with  pain  thou  treadest,  trod 
The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were  set, 
The  light  which  led  them  shineth  yet. 

The  footprints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which  marked  their  path,  remain  in  thine ; 
And  that  great  Life,  transfused  in  theirs, 
Awaits  thy  faith,  thy  love,  thy  prayers  ! 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 


2 

Marie  Antoinette,  1755. 

SOON  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the  spectres 

of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and   dread  forebodings,  in  the 

darkness  undefined; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of  the  heart 

and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and  the 

cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children ;  and  no  answer 

from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and  no  white 

wings  downward  fly; 
182 


NOVEMBER 

But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to  faith, 

and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward  all  the 

spirits  of  the  night ! 

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 


William  Cullen  Bryant,  1794. 

WE  praise  not  now  the  poet's  art, 
The  rounded  beauty  of  his  song ; 

Who  weighs  him  from  his  life  apart 
Must  do  his  nobler  nature  wrong. 

Not  for  the  eye,  familiar  grown 

With  charms  to  common  sight  denied,  — 
The  marvellous  gift  he  shares  alone 

With  him  who  walked  on  Rydal-side. 

Not  for  rapt  hymn  nor  woodland  lay, 

Too  grave  for  smiles,  too  sweet  for  tears ; 

We  speak  his  praise  who  wears  to-day 
The  glory  of  his  seventy  years. 

1864.  BRYANT  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY. 


James  Montgomery,  1771. 

THE  grass  is  browning  on  the  hills ; 

No  pale,  belated  flowers  recall 
The  astral  fringes  of  the  rills, 
183 


NOVEMBER 

And  drearily  the  dead  vines  fall, 
Frost-blackened,  from  the  roadside  wall. 

Yet  through  the  gray  and  sombre  wood, 
Against  the  dusk  of  fir  and  pine, 

Last  of  their  floral  sisterhood, 

The  hazel's  yellow  blossoms  shine, 
The  tawny  gold  of  Afric's  mine  ! 

HAZEL-BLOSSOMS. 


Washington  Allston,  1779. 

ALONG  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod ; 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 
And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed  the  sweet 
wild-rose ! 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


6 

C.  C.  Felton,  1807 ;  Richard  Jefferies,  1848. 

OUR  hearts  grow  cold, 
We  lightly  hold 

A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain ; 
184 


NOVEMBER 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 

Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  'of  pain. 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam, 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 

THE  EVB  OF  ELECTION. 


THAT  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair;  — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


MY  PSALM. 
I8S 


NOVEMBER 
8 

Robert,  Earl  Lytton,  1831. 

THE  summer  and  the  winter  here 

Midway  a  truce  are  holding, 
A  soft,  consenting  atmosphere 

Their  tents  of  peace  enfolding. 

The  silent  woods,  the  lonely  hills, 
Rise  solemn  in  their  gladness  ; 

The  quiet  that  the  valley  fills 
Is  scarcely  joy  or  sadness. 

ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 


MY  autumn  time  and  Nature's  hold 

A  dreamy  tryst  together, 
And,  both  grown  old,  about  us  fold 

The  golden-tissued  weather. 

I  lean  my  heart  against  the  day 

To  feel  its  bland  caressing; 
I  will  not  let  it  pass  away 

Before  it  leaves  its  blessing. 

ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 

186 


NOVEMBER 
10 

Luther,  1483;  Goldsmith,  1728;  Schiller,  1759;  S.  G.  Howe,  1801. 

SMILE  not,  fair  unbeliever ! 

One  man,  at  least,  I  know, 
Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard 

Or  Sidney's  plume  of  snow. 

True  as  the  knights  of  story, 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 
Brave  in  his  calm  endurance 

As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

Wouldst  know  him  now  ?     Behold  him, 

The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 
Giving  the  dumb  lip  language, 

The  idiot  clay  a  mind. 

THE  HERO. 


II 

Martinmas ;  T.  B.  Aldrich,  1836. 

THOUGH  flowers  have  perished  at  the  touch 

Of  Frost,  the  early  comer, 
I  hail  the  season  loved  so  much, 

The  good  St.  Martin's  summer. 

O  gracious  morn,  with  rose-red  dawn, 
And  thin  moon  curving  o'er  it ! 

The  old  year's  darling,  latest  born, 
More  loved  than  all  before  it  1 
187 


NOVEMBER 

The  sweet  day,  opening  as  a  flower 

Unfolds  its  petals  tender, 
Renews  for  us  at  noontide's  hour 

The  summer's  tempered  splendor. 

ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 

12 

Richard  Baxter,  1613. 

THE  "  Call  to  the  Unconverted  "  and  the  "  Saints' 
Everlasting  Rest  "  belong  to  no  time  or  sect.  They 
speak  the  universal  language  of  the  wants  and  de- 
sires of  the  human  soul.  They  take  hold  of  the 
awful  verities  of  life  and  death,  righteousness  and 
judgment  to  come.  Through  them  the  suffering 
and  hunted  minister  of  Kidderminster  has  spoken 
in  warning,  entreaty,  and  rebuke,  or  in  tones  of  ten- 
derest  love  and  pity,  to  the  hearts  of  the  genera- 
tions which  have  succeeded  him. 

RICHARD  BAXTER. 

13 

St.  Augustine,  354;  Tegner,  1782;  Edwin  Booth,  1833. 

THE  fourteen  centuries  fall  away 

Between  us  and  the  Afric  saint, 
And  at  his  side  we  urge,  to-day, 
The  immemorial  quest  and  old  complaint. 

No  outward  sign  to  us  is  given,  — 

From  sea  or  earth  comes  no  reply  ; 
Hushed  as  the  warm  Numidian  heaven 
He  vainly  questioned,  bends  our  frozen  sky. 
1 88 


NOVEMBER 

No  victory  comes  of  all  our  strife,  — 

From  all  we  grasp  the  meaning  slips  ; 
The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of  life, 
With  the  old  question  on  her  awful  lips. 

THB  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 


14 

L.  J.  M.  Daguerre,  1787;  Sir  Charles  Lyell,  1797. 

I  HAVE  no  answer  for  myself  or  thee, 

Save  that  I  learned  beside  my  mother's  knee ; 

"  All  is  of  God  that  is,  and  is  to  be ; 

And  God  is  good."     Let  this  suffice  us  still, 
Resting  in  childlike  trust  upon  His  will 

Who  moves  to  His  great  ends  unthwarted  by  the 

ill. 

TRUST. 


William  Cowper,  1731;  R.  H.  Dana, 1787. 

AND  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  haply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Olney's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

Who  gave  them  both  a  tongue  ; 
For  he  who  sings  the  love  of  man 

The  love  of  God  hath  sung  ! 

BURNS  FESTIVAL. 
189 


NOVEMBER 
16 

John  Bright,  1811  ;  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  1827. 

PRESS  on  !  —  the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause : 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

To  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 


17 

Sir  Charles  Eastlake,  1793;  George  Grote,  1794. 

THE  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar, 
The  king  of  some  remoter  star, 
Listening,  at  times,  with  flattered  ear 
To  homage  wrung  from  selfish  fear, 
But  here,  amidst  the  poor  and  blind, 
The  bound  and  suffering  of  our  kind, 
In  works  we  do,  in  prayers  we  pray, 
Life  of  our  life,  He  lives  to-day. 

THE  MEETING. 
190 


NOVEMBER 
18 

David  Wilkie,  1785;  Asa  Gray,  1810. 

O'ER  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched  hands 

Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in  vain, 
I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level  dim  with  rain. 
Around  me  all  things,  stark  and  dumb, 
Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 
And,  for  the  summer  bloom  and  greenness  gone, 
With   winter's   sunset   lights   and   dazzling    morn 
atone. 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 

19 

Elisha  Mulford,  1833. 

UNNOTED  as  the  setting  of  a  star 
He  passed  ;  and  sect  and  party  scarcely  knew 
When  from  their  midst  a  sage  and  seer  with- 
drew 

To  fitter  audience,  where  the  great  dead  are 
In  God's  republic  of  the  heart  and  mind, 
Leaving  no  purer,  nobler  soul  behind. 

MULFORD. 

2O 

Thomas  Chatterton,  1752;  Queen  Margherita,  1851. 

FOREVER  round  the  Mercy-seat 
The  guiding  lights  of  Love  shall  burn  ; 
191 


NOVEMBER 

But  what  if,  habit-bound,  thy  feet 
Shall  lack  the  will  to  turn? 

What  if  thine  eye  refuse  to  see, 

Thine  ear  of  Heaven's  free  welcome  fail, 
And  thou  a  willing  captive  be, 

Thyself  thy  own  dark  jail  ? 

Oh,  doom  beyond  the  saddest  guess, 
As  the  long  years  of  God  unroll, 

To  make  thy  dreary  selfishness 
The  prison  of  a  soul ! 

THE  ANSWER. 


21 

Bryan  Waller  Procter,  1787. 

NEVER  yet  in  darkest  mood 
Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 
Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 
Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate,  — 
Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 
Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 
Or  that  good  can  only  live 
Of  the  bad  conservative, 
And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 
Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 
192 


NOVEMBER 

22 
"  George   Eliot,"  1819. 

BEFORE  the  Ender  comes,  whose  charioteer 
Is  swift  or  slow  Disease,  lay  up  each  year 
Thy  harvests  of  well-doing,  wealth  that  kings 
Nor  thieves  can  take  away.     When  all  the  things 
Thou  callest  thine,  goods,  pleasures,  honors  fall, 
Thou  in  thy  virtue  shalt  survive  them  all. 

LAYING  UP  TREASURE. 

23 

FAIRER  hands  never  wrought  at  a  pastry  more  fine, 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  baking,  than 

thine ! 

And  the  prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too  full  to  ex- 
press, 

Swells  my  heart  that  thy  shadow  may  never  be  less, 
That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  lengthened  below, 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pumpkin-vine 

grow, 

And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sunset  sky 
Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  Pumpkin  pie ! 

THE  PUMPKIN. 

24 

Laurence  Sterne,  1713;  H.  T.  Buckle,  1821. 

THE  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning,  through  the  still 

and  frosty  air, 

From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point,  called  to 
sermon  and  to  prayer, 
193 


NOVEMBER 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in  order 

due  and  fit, 
As  by  public  vote  directed,  classed  and  ranked  the 

people  sit ; 

Mistress  first   and   goodwife  after,   clerkly  squire 

before  the  clown, 
From  the  brave  coat,  lace-embroidered,  to  the  gray 

frock,  shading  down. 

MARY  GARVIN. 


THE  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 
Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say, 
In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 
Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would  need. 
For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity  ! 

SNOW-BOUND. 
194 


NOVEMBER 
26 

Empress  Marie  Fdodorovna,  1847. 

AH  !  on  Thanksgiving  day,  when  from  East  and 

from  West, 
From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pilgrim  and 

guest, 
When  the  gray-haired  New-Englander  sees  round 

his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  restored, 
When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his  mother  oncet 

more, 
And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl  smiled 

before. 

THE  PUMPKIN. 


Frances  Anne  Kemble,  1809. 

STILL  on  the  lips  of  all  we  question 
The  finger  of  God's  silence  lies  ; 

Will  the  lost  hands  in  ours  be  folded? 
Will  the  shut  eyelids  ever  rise  ? 

O  friend  !  no  proof  beyond  this  yearning, 
This  outreach  of  our  hearts,  we  need  ; 

God  will  not  mock  the  hope  He  giveth, 
No  love  He  prompts  shall  vainly  plead. 

No  dreary  splendors  wait  our  coming 
Where  rapt  ghost  sits  from  ghost  apart ; 
195 


NOVEMBER 

Homeward  we  go  to  Heaven's  thanksgiving, 
The  harvest-gathering  of  the  heart. 

To  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD. 


28 


William  Blake,  1757- 

O  CHRIST  of  God  !  whose  life  and  death 

Our  own  have  reconciled, 
Most  quietly,  most  tenderly 

Take  home  Thy  star-named  child  ! 

Thy  grace  is  in  her  patient  eyes, 

Thy  words  are  on  her  tongue  ; 
The  very  silence  round  her  seems 

As  if  the  angels  sung. 

Her  smile  is  as  a  listening  child's 

Who  hears  its  mother  call ; 
The  lilies  of  Thy  perfect  peace 

About  her  pillow  fall. 

Oh,  less  for  her  than  for  ourselves 

We  bow  our  heads  and  pray ; 
Her  setting  star,  like  Bethlehem's, 

To  Thee  shall  point  the  way ! 

VESTA 
196 


NOVEMBER 
29 

Sir  Philip  Sidney,  1554 

BETTER  to  use  the  bit,  than  throw 

The  reins  all  loose  on  fancy's  neck. 
The  liberal  range  of  Art  should  be 
The  breadth  of  Christian  liberty, 
Restrained  alone  by  challenge  and  alarm 
Where  its  charmed  footsteps  tread  the  border 
land  of  harm. 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


30 

St.  Andrew;  Jonathan  Swift,  1667;  Theodor  Mommsen,  1817. 

LET  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 
Grateful,  so  the  work  be  Thine ; 
Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 
In  the  shadow  of  Thy  grace : 
Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 
Where  temptation  whispers  not. 
If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on ; 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 
Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 
Make  my  mortal  dreams  come  true 
With  the  work  I  fain  would  do ; 
Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant. 

ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER. 
I97 


SDccemto 

A   CHRISTMAS    CARMEN 


SOUND  over  all  waters,  reach  out  from  all  lands, 

The  chorus  of  voices,  the  clasping  of  hands  ; 

Sing  hymns   that   were   sung  by  the  stars  of  the 

morn, 
Sing  songs  of  the  angels  when  Jesus  was  born  ! 

With  glad  jubilations 

Bring  hope  to  the  nations ! 
The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  begun  : 
Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat  as  one ! 


Sing  the  bridal  of  nations  !  with  chorals  of  love 
Sing  out  the  war-vulture  and  sing  in  the  dove, 
Till  the  hearts  of  the  peoples  keep  time  in  accord, 
And   the  voice  of  the  world  is  the  voice  of  the 

Lord! 

Clasp  hands  of  the  nations 
In  strong  gratulations : 

The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  begun  ; 
Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat  as  one  ! 
198 


DECEMBER 
in 

Blow,  bugles  of  battle,  the  marches  of  peace ; 
East,  west,  north,  and  south  let  the  long  quarrel 

cease : 

Sing  the  song  of  great  joy  that  the  angels  began, 
Sing  of  glory  to  God  and  of  good-will  to  man ! 
Hark!  joining  in  chorus 
The  heavens  bend  o'er  us ! 
The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  begun ; 
Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat  as  one  ! 
199 


DECEMBER 


Alexandra,  Princess  of  Wales,  1844. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 
Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 
Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 
A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 
It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 
A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 
That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 
Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 
The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 
The  wind  blew  east ;  we  heard  the  roar 
Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 
And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 
Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

SNOW-BOUND. 


Pedro  II.  of  Brazil,  1825. 

To  Thee  our  full  humanity, 
Its  joys  and  pains,  belong ; 

The  wrong  of  man  to  man  on  Thee 
Inflicts  a  deeper  wrong. 

To  do  Thy  will  is  more  than  praise, 
As  words  are  less  than  deeds, 
200 


DECEMBER 

And  simple  trust  can  find  Thy  ways 
We  miss  with  chart  of  creeds. 

Alone,  O  Love  ineffable  ! 

Thy  saving  name  is  given ; 
To  turn  aside  from  Thee  is  hell, 

To  walk  with  Thee  is  heaven ! 

OUR  MASTER. 


Mary  Lamb,  1764;  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  1830. 

O  LOVE  Divine !  —  whose  constant  beam 

Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not  see, 
And  waits  to  bless  us,  while  we  dream 
Thou  leavest  us  because  we  turn  from  Thee ! 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  aspire, 

All  hearts  of  prayer  by  Thee  are  lit ; 
And,  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues  of  fire 
On  dusky  tribes  and  twilight  centuries  sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed  Thou  know'st, 

Wide  as  our  need  Thy  favors  fall ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads  of  all. 

THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT. 
201 


DECEMBER 


Thomas  Carlyle,  1795. 

FADE,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery 
Wherewith  mankind  have  deified 
Their  hate,  and  selfishness,  and  pride ! 

Let  the  scared  dreamer  wake  to  see 
The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his  side  ! 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and  uneonsoled  ; 
It  yet  shall  touch  His  garment's  fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

THE  OVER-HEART. 


5 

Martin  Van  Buren,  1782 ;  "  E.  Marlitt,'1  1825. 

AGE  brought  him  no  despairing 
Of  the  world's  future  faring ; 
In  human  nature  still 
He  found  more  good  than  ill. 

Hater  of  din  and  riot, 
He  lived  in  days  unquiet; 
And,  lover  of  all  beauty, 
Trod  the  hard  ways  of  duty. 

AN  AUTOGRAPH. 

202 


DECEMBER 
6 

R.  H.  Barham,  1788. 

OTHERS  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong, — 
Finish  what  I  begin, 
And  all  I  fail  of  win. 

What  matter,  I  or  they? 
Mine  or  another's  day, 
So  the  right  word  be  said 
And  life  the  sweeter  made  ? 

Hail  to  the  coming  singers  ! 
Hail  to  the  brave  light-bringers ! 
Forward  I  reach  and  share 
All  that  they  sing  and  dare. 

MY  TRIUMPH. 


Elizabeth  Whittier,  1815. 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  ou*  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  in  the  unfading  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 

203 


DECEMBER 

I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 

SNOW-BOUND. 


Lady  Anne  Barnard,  1750. 

NOR  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 
Of  slumbering  in  oblivion's  rest, 

Life's  myriads  blending  into  one, 
In  blank  annihilation  blest. 

No!  I  have  friends  in  Spirit  Land, — 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came  ; 
Their  change,  —  the  holy  mornlight  breaking 
Upon  the  dream-worn  sleeper,  waking,  — 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 

Lucy  HOOPER. 


.9 

John  Milton,  1608. 

THE  new  world  honors  him  whose  lofty  plea 
For  England's  freedom  made  her  own  more  sure, 
204 


DECEMBER 

Whose  song,  immortal  as  its  theme,  shall  be 
Their  common  freehold  while  both  worlds  endure. 

MILTON. 

[Inscription  OH  the  Memorial  Window  in  St.  Margaret's 
CAurcA,  Westminster.] 


IO 

William  Lloyd  Garrison,  1805. 

FROM  lips  that  Sinai's  trumpet  blew 
We  heard  a  tender  undersong ; 

Thy  very  wrath  from  pity  grew, 

From  love  of  man  thy  hate  of  wrong. 

Now  past  and  present  are  as  one; 

The  life  below  is  life  above ; 
Thy  mortal  years  have  but  begun 

The  immortality  of  love. 

Go,  leave  behind  thee  all  that  mars 
The  work  below  of  man  for  man ; 

With  the  white  legions  of  the  stars 
Do  service  such  as  angels  can. 


GARRISON. 


II 

Hector  Berlioz,  1803  ;  Alfred  de  Mussel,  1810. 

O  LIVING  friends  who  love  me  ! 

0  dear  ones  gone  above  me  ! 
Careless  of  other  fame, 

1  leave  to  you  my  name. 

205 


DECEMBER 

Hide  it  from  idle  praises, 

Save  it  from  evil  phrases : 

Why,  when  dear  lips  that  spake  it 

Are  dumb,  should  strangers  wake  it  ? 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall ; 
I  better  know  than  all 
How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 

MY  TRIUMPH. 


12 

John  Jay,  1745  ;   F.  H.  Hedge,  1805. 

BEYOND  the  poet's  sweet  dream  lives 

The  eternal  epic  of  the  man. 
He  wisest  is  who  only  gives, 

True  to  himself,  the  best  he  can  ; 
Who,  drifting  in  the  winds  of  praise, 
The  inward  monitor  obeys  ; 
And,  with  the  boldness  that  confesses  fear, 
Takes  in  the  crowded  sail,  and  lets  his  conscience 
steer. 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


13 

Arthur  Penrhyn  Stanley,  1815;  Phillips  Brooks,  1835. 

A  TRUE  life  is  at  once  interpreter  and  proof  of 
the  Gospel. 

INTRODUCTION  TO  WOOLMAN'S  JOURNAL. 
206 


DECEMBER 

STILL  shines  the  light  of  holy  lives 

Like  star-beams  over  doubt; 
Each  sainted  memory,  Christlike,  drives 

Some  dark  possession  out. 

WILLIAM  FORSTER. 


14 

Washington  died,  1799. 

OUR  first  and  best !  — his  ashes  lie 

Beneath  his  own  Virginian  sky. 
Forgive,  forget,  O  true  and  just  and  brave, 
The  storm  that  swept  above  thy  sacred  grave  ! 

For,  ever  in  the  awful  strife 

And  dark  hours  of  the  nation's  life, 

Through  the  fierce  tumult  pierced  his  warning 
word, 

Their  father's  voice  his  erring  children  heard  ! 

THE  Vow  OF  WASHINGTON. 


15 

La  Rochefoucauld,  1613. 

O  LORD  and  Master  of  us  all ! 

Whate'er  our  name  or  sign, 
We  own  Thy  sway,  we  hear  Thy  call, 

We  test  our  lives  by  Thine. 

Our  thoughts  lie  open  to  Thy  sight ; 
And,  naked  to  Thy  glance, 
207 


DECEMBER 

Our  secret  sins  are  in  the  light 
Of  Thy  pure  countenance. 

Thy  healing  pains,  a  keen  distress 

Thy  tender  light  shines  in ; 
Thy  sweetness  is  the  bitterness, 

Thy  grace  the  pang  of  sin. 

OUR  MASTER. 


16 


George  Whitefield,  1714;  Jane  Austen,  1775. 

Lo  !  by  the  Merrimack  Whitefield  stands 

In  the  temple  that  never  was  made  by  hands, — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  wall, 

And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all !  — 

A  homeless  pilgrim,  with  dubious  name 

Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame ; 

Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed, 

And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 

Called  in  his  youth  to  sound  and  gauge 

The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 

And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast  draw 

Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law; 

Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought  that  lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 

Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 

A  John  the  Baptist  crying,  Repent ! 

THE  PREACHER. 
208 


DECEMBER 
17 

Beethoven,  1770;  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  1807. 

BESIDE  that  milestone  where  the  level  sun, 
Nigh  unto  setting,  sheds  his  last,  low  rays 

On  word  and  work  irrevocably  done, 

Life's  blending  threads  of  good  and  ill  outspun, 
I  hear,  O  friends !  your  words  of  cheer  and  praise, 

Half  doubtful  if  myself  or  otherwise. 
Like  him  who,  in  the  old  Arabian  joke, 
A  beggar  slept  and  crowned  Caliph  woke. 

Thanks  not  the  less.     With  not  unglad  surprise 

I  see  my  life-work  through  your  partial  eyes ; 

Assured,  in  giving  to  my  home-taught  songs 

A  higher  value  than  of  right  belongs, 

You  do  but  read  between  the  written  lines 

The  finer  grace  of  unfulfilled  designs. 
1877.  RESPONSE. 


18 


Constitutional  Amendment  Abolishing  Slavery,  1865. 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  ! 

Ring  and  swing, 

Bells  of  joy !     On  morning's  wing 
209 


DECEMBER 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God ! 

LAUS  DEO. 


19 

HE  saw  her  lift  her  eyes ;  he  felt 

The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 
And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 

As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"  I  'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word : 

I  hate  to  go  above  you, 
Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell,  — 

"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you  !  " 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 

Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 

IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 
210 


DECEMBER 
20 

LET  the  icy  north-wind  blow 
The  trumpets  of  the  coming  storm. 
To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 

Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  transform. 
Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted  cold, 
As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old ; 

And  I,  who  watch  them  through  the  frosty  pane, 
Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood  o'er  again. 
THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


21 

Leopold  von  Ranke,  1795  ;  Lord  Beaconsfield,  1804. 

DEAR  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the  dual 
life  of  old, 

Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence ;  outward, 
mean  and  coarse  and  cold  ; 

Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull  and 
vulgar  clay, 

Golden-threaded  fancies  weaving  in  a  web  of  hod- 
den gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past;    but 

through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from  the  life 

behind  steal  in ; 

211 


DECEMBER 

And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the  legen- 
dary rhyme, 

Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the  true  man 
owes  his  time. 

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 


22 


Landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  1620. 

SAD  Mayflower  !  watched  by  winter  stars, 

And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 

And  leaves  of  frozen  sails  ! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 

Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 
In  common  with  the  wild-wood  flowers, 

The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May? 

"  God  wills  it :  here  our  rest  shall  be, 

Our  years  of  wandering  o'er  ; 
For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea 

Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 

Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 
And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 

Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

THE  MAYFLOWERS. 
212 


DECEMBER 
23 

Sir  Richard  Arkwright,  1732 ;  C.  A.  Sainte-Beuve,  1804. 

ASK  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 
I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills, 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual  loss. 
I  dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 
And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 
But  scarce  would  Ceylon's  breath  of  flowers  be 

sweet, 

Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  England,  at  my 
feet! 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 


24 

George  Crabbe,  1754;  Matthew  Arnold,  1823- 

WHO  gives  and  hides  the  giving  hand, 
Nor  counts  on  favor,  fame,  or  praise, 
Shall  find  his  smallest  gift  outweighs 

The  burden  of  the  sea  and  land. 

Who  gives  to  whom  hath  naught  been  given, 
His  gift  in  need,  though  small  indeed 
As  is  the  grass-blade's  wind-blown  seed, 

Is  large  as  earth  and  rich  as  heaven. 

GIVING  AND  TAKING. 
213 


DECEMBER 

25 

Christmas;  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  1642;  William  Collins,  1720. 

OUR  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord, 

What  may  Thy  service  be  ?  — 
Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word, 

But  simply  following  Thee. 

In  vain  shall  waves  of  incense  drift 

The  vaulted  nave  around, 
In  vain  the  minster  turret  lift 

Its  brazen  weights  of  sound. 

The  heart  must  ring  Thy  Christmas  bells, 

Thy  inward  altars  raise ; 
Its  faith  and  hope  Thy  canticles, 

And  its  obedience  praise  ! 

OUR  MASTER. 


26 

St.  Stephen  ;  Thomas  Gray,  1716. 

I  LISTEN,  from  no  mortal  tongue, 
To  hear  the  song  the  angels  sung  ; 
And  wait  within  myself  to  know 
The  Christmas  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

The  outward  symbols  disappear 
From  him  whose  inward  sight  is  clear; 
214 


DECEMBER 

And  small  must  be  the  choice  of  days 
To  him  who  fills  them  all  with  praise ! 

THE  MYSTIC'S  CHRISTMAS. 


27 

St.  John  Evangelist ;  Abigail  Whittier  (the  Poet's  Mother), 
died  1857. 

AND  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 

Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and  pain,  — 

The  Autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 

Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is  done, 

Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape  seem 
Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters  dream, 
Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every  stream ; 

For  she  whose  speech  was  always  truth's  pure  gold 
Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends  told, 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old. 

PROEM  TO  MABEL  MARTIN. 


28 

Innocents'  Day;  C.  M.  Sedgwick,  1789. 

OF  such  the  kingdom  !  —  Teach  Thou  us, 

O  Master  most  divine, 
To  feel  the  deep  significance 

Of  these  wise  words  of  Thine ! 
215 


DECEMBER 

The  haughty  eye  shall  seek  in  vain 

What  innocence  beholds  ; 
No  cunning  finds  the  key  of  heaven, 

No  strength  its  gate  unfolds. 

Alone  to  guilelessness  and  love 

That  gate  shall  open  fall ; 
The  mind  of  pride  is  nothingness, 

The  childlike  heart  is  all ! 

CHILD-SONGS. 


29 

W.  E.  Gladstone,  1809. 

WHAT  is  really  momentous  and  all-important 
with  us  is  the  present,  by  which  the  future  is  shaped 
and  colored. 

THE  BETTER  LAND. 

THEN  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is  done, 

Why  queriest  thou  ?  — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  now ! 

MY  SOUL  AND  I. 


30 

GALLERY  of  sacred  pictures  manifold, 
A  minster  rich  in  holy  effigies, 
And  bearing  on  entablature  and  frieze 

The  hieroglyphic  oracles  of  old. 
216 


DECEMBER 

Along  its  transept  aureoled  martyrs  sit ; 

And  the  low  chancel  side-lights  half  acquaint 
The  eye  with  shrines  of  prophet,  bard,  and  saint, 
Their  age-dimmed  tablets  traced  in  doubtful  writ ! 
But  only  when  on  form  and  word  obscure 
Falls  from  above  the  white  supernal  light 
We  read  the  mystic  characters  aright, 
And  life  informs  the  silent  portraiture, 
Until  we  pause  at  last,  awe-held,  before 
The  One  ineffable  Face,  love,  wonder,  and  adore. 

THE  BOOK. 


31 

James  T.  Fields,  1816. 

HE  knew  each  living  pundit  well, 

Could  weigh  the  gifts  of  him  or  her, 
And  well  the  market  value  tell 

Of  poet  and  philosopher. 
But  if  he  lost,  the  scenes  behind, 
Somewhat  of  reverence  vague  and  blind, 
Finding  the  actors  human  at  the  best, 
No  readier  lips  than  his  the  good  he  saw  confessed. 

His  boyhood  fancies  not  outgrown, 

He  loved  himself  the  singer's  art ; 
Tenderly,  gently,  by  his  own 

He  knew  and  judged  an  author's  heart. 
No  Rhadamanthine  brow  of  doom 
Bowed  the  dazed  pedant  from  his  room  ; 
217 


DECEMBER 

And  bards,  whose  name  is  legion,  if  denied, 
Bore  off  alike  intact  their  verses  and  their  pride. 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 


BENEATH  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 

Lies  dead  my  latest  year; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moaning  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell ; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 

God  is,  and  all  is  well ! 

MY  BIRTHDAY. 


RICH  gift  of  God !     A  year  of  time  ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern  clime 

Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands  gay, 
What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 

And  clover-bloom  and  sweet-briar  smells, 
What  songs  of  brooks  and  birds,  what  fruits  and 

flowers, 

Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have  in  its  round 
been  ours ! 

THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN. 
218 


